by Cesar Aira
The mysterious palmipeds, surrounded not only by mist but by the encroaching dark gray of a rainy dusk, gave little ceremonial kicks to the egg until it reached the sea, then dived in after it one by one. Defying the high waves, the sinister rumble of the tide, and the wind and rain, they performed stately circles around the egg, which floated in the center.
“It must be rotten, if it floats,” Maciel said.
“What do you know about it?” another chief responded.
They left the scene lost in thought. They could have shot duck after duck (or at least the Englishman could have done so, and the few Indians who were good shots but never killed anyone because they never normally bothered to take aim, firing at random) but they would never have been able to recover their catch.
The second battle took place out of sight and sound for the naturalist and makeshift general, who learned about it only afterward, and elsewhere. The Great Sine Curve had disconcerted everyone, friend and foe alike. Half of their troops, previously grouped at Salinas Grandes, joined the Figure at an odd angle, and immediately ran into the Voroga forces. No one was killed, something so unusual that it led Clarke to think it had been nothing more than a skirmish. The person who described the action was a show-off from the Court who had become a messenger to see a bit of the world. He made a great show of standing on ceremony to utter complete banalities, lent himself airs, and prolonged his sentences interminably. In the end, he gave the impression he had no idea of what he was talking about, and that he was talking about nothing. And yet he said it with complete assurance, was totally convinced and convincing. Clarke’s mind wandered as he listened to this babble. Something had occurred to him, and he preferred to follow the thread of his own thought than the Indian’s grandiloquence, to which however the other chiefs in the war council were listening with rapt attention.
Clarke recalled one of the first explanations Cafulcurá had given him. The continuum, he had told him, was the key to everything for the Indians. Clarke could accept that, but where was this continuum? It was everywhere, including in Cafulcurá’s affirmation: that was precisely what it was all about. It was a perfect passe-partout, an impalpable thread running through everything. Of course it was easy to say and even to understand, what was much more difficult was to find a practical example. Over the past few weeks, Clarke had often felt he was on the point of finding one, but he always shied away at the decisive moment, preferring to relegate the idea once more to the realm of abstract intuitions, which seemed not only correct but the only alternative when in fact it was the worst possible betrayal of the continuum. It was to completely negate it. The thought that had struck him while he was listening to the messenger was that war was the perfect opportunity to attain the continuum. Clarke felt he was ready to do so, and courageous enough. It was nothing more than a thought, like one of the hundred that flit through anyone’s mind every day: he only had to cling onto it, and the continuum would start up. He could begin anywhere: at some random point in all the rubbish that the Indian opposite him was spouting, for example. But he did not even need to make that effort; he could begin at any point in the tendrils of all that had happened. For example, the Hare, in any of the intriguing or fantastic forms it had appeared in. The Hare was a good emblem for a strategic battle plan, because of its unexpected leaps, its elusive speed, its flexibility, the way it stared in fascination at the rising or setting sun (its indifference to whether it was sunrise or sunset mirrored the indifference as to victory or defeat that characterizes a true fascination with war). Then from the hare, he could and should move on to another element. The line. The horizon. The wanderer. The inversions of perspective. Everything else. And so on. But he had no intention of making a catalog of the universe. He had to force himself to make a break in the chain. It is always the same, there is nothing so true as the saying “it’s the thought that counts.” The break, which immediately became incorporated into the continuum, took the form (a form which also became part of the continuum) of a strategic plan which Clarke began to put into practice the very next day: the strategy of the Hare. As soon as he did so, the Huilliches’ victory was assured. It was as simple as that. His only regret was not having anyone to tell all this to, but on second thought he had no need to regret it, because in this way the form passed wholesale into the content.
The next morning, using as his excuse the courtier’s vague information, Clarke ordered a general mobilization in a straight line toward the shifting Voroga encampments. Enthusiasm ran like an electric current through the Indians, who were convinced, with that erratic fanaticism of theirs, that they were being led by a visionary. Everyone sped off. In mid-afternoon, whom should they meet if not Equimoxis. They were in such a hurry they would have butchered him on the spot had Clarke not got wind of it, and been inspired with yet another idea. What a splendid trap it would be, he thought, what an elegant way to go beyond the strategy of the Hare itself, if they used an underground passage from one horizon to another. When all was said and done, that was what this was about. The only thing the Hare provided was the idea. In reality, it was impossible. But in the narrative, the possibility arose, almost as a joke. Clarke recalled being told underground that the caverns had distant outlets on the surface: that was enough for him. After a brief conversation with Equimoxis, he decided to go underground with him and summon Pillán’s help. No sooner said than done, and that night the twenty thousand Indians, plus all their horses and cattle, descended into the bowels of the earth.
On the other side, they emerged free from everything they could have wished to have left behind, except for the rain, which went on falling with relentless monotony. They joined up with the contingents from Salinas Grandes, and prepared to fall on the rear of the Voroga army, which had not the slightest suspicion of where they were. Since their usual routines had been upset, they slept, marched, drank and made plans in one huge confused jumble. The final battle lasted two whole days and nights, but could also have been said not to have taken place at all. It was more like a big deterrent maneuver. Clarke and his “team” camped by the side of a stream where messengers began to come and go with the most contradictory reports. There was fighting, or there was not. The foul weather got even worse. The second night reverberated with thunder and lightning. At nightfall, worried by a number of reports that led him to fear his plans might be going awry, Clarke set off with the ever-present Maciel and four aides to the spot where the nearest camp was meant to be. There were only a few Indians there, changing horses before they sped off into the darkness again, but they assured him that Mallén was only a short distance away with the main army, so they headed in the direction indicated. Instead of the old shaman they ran into a group of drunken Indians sitting on a termite hill, with no fire or shelter. Clarke dispatched two in one direction and two in another with the task of getting some reliable information and bringing it to him at his original starting-point, where he headed back to with Maciel. The rain and the electric storm increased in fury. Because he was so preoccupied, had not slept for several nights, and had so many things to worry about, Clarke had not stopped to consider that Maciel was even more drunk than usual. So drunk in fact that something happened which they say never occurs to an Indian: he fell off his horse. The darkness they were galloping through was so impenetrable that Clarke would not even have noticed had it not been for the fact that with the continual rain the grease the Indians used to keep dry took on a slight phosphorescence. So what he saw was a kind of fetal ghost shooting over his head in a sleeping position. He was traveling so quickly that it took him about a hundred yards to rein in Repetido, and by the time he turned back to look for the Indian, Maciel’s riderless horse, which had slowed and turned in the same way as Clarke had, led him off in the wrong direction, so that he could find no trace of Maciel. Clarke did not stay looking for long; he thought the Indian was bound to be all right wherever he was, because nothing happens to drunks in accidents; the worst he could suffer would be a bad thirst, that is, if
he had not managed to cling onto his bottle during his feats of gliding. So Clarke galloped off; it was a miracle after all that had taken place that he did not get lost, but he eventually succeeded in finding his way back to the creek. A fire was lit under the trees; a couple of Indians were dozing beside it. He sent them to rescue Maciel, roughly indicating the direction where they should look. He decided to sleep until dawn, unless he was woken beforehand. It seemed strange to him that this series of chance encounters should represent the greatest battle ever fought between the Indian nations, but he was in no mood for speculation. His accumulated tiredness had reached crisis point. The thunder made him tremble, the lightning made him blink, and he needed a fresh layer of grease on his shoulders and back. For the past two days he had been living in a rectangular tent, built among the low branches of the trees by the stream; as he approached it now, he noticed the glimmer of a fire inside, the promise of a comfortable sleep. He drew back the flap that served as a door, took two steps inside, with his head spinning from exhaustion, his limbs quivering . . . and it was only then that he realized there was someone sitting by the fire. He could scarcely help recognizing him, and the shock sent his battered nervous system into a paroxysm of confusion.
There the man sat, and lifted his gaze to look at him . . . it was he himself, his perfect double, more like Clarke than Clarke himself, because he was wearing his clothes and smoking his pipe. An English traveler, a gentleman, whereas he stood there naked and dripping wet, looking like the most wretched of savages. He stammered out:
“What are you doing here?” What he would really have liked to ask was: “Who are you?”
“So you’re the Englishman?” the man identical to Clarke said. The latter nodded agreement, more with his gaping mouth than with his head. “I must excuse myself for taking your clothes, but I couldn’t find anything else to keep me warm. I’ll give them back straight away.”
“There’s no need.”
“. . . But I’m warm now.” So saying, he took off the clothes.
“I can see you’re out on your feet. I’d heard you looked like me, but I didn’t imagine you were identical. We can talk tomorrow.” He stood up. The small fire on the ground threw up shadows on the tent walls flapping from the rain.
“You’re leaving?”
“There’s a battle going on out there! I’ve already lost enough time as it is.”
The other Clarke came up to the first; his voice was deep, worried, almost inaudible in the thunderstorm.
“The Widow can’t stand me.”
Clarke collapsed on to the floor, so groggy that it was worse than if he had already been asleep. The other man went out. Clarke fell into a deep sleep.
By the time he woke up, it was all over. As he later learned, the everlasting peace had been reestablished, on terms detrimental to the honor and finances of Coliqueo, who fled to seek refuge among his white allies. Every chieftain left taking his tribe with him, without even bothering to attend the celebrations organized in Salinas Grandes. Clarke woke up thirty hours after he had fallen asleep, all alone, on a splendid morning with a clear sky and with the sun shining at last over the wet plain. In fact, it was the sun that woke him, because his companions had dismantled the tent when they left. He could see no trace of Maciel, but was not surprised: hastily made friendships were the first to dissolve. He woke up slowly, thoughts drifting through his mind. He was not upset about having been forgotten, quite the contrary. Apart from feeling slightly hungry, he was fine; Repetido and his other ponies were grazing nearby. He supposed that everything was over; he could well imagine the outcome, and all he had to do now was to decide which direction to head in. The most logical thing would be to make for Salinas Grandes, but the idea of seeing more Indians was wearisome. Well, he would see. For now, he went to bathe in the stream, scraped the remaining grease off his skin, dried himself while smoking a pipe in the sun, then got dressed. His clothes were scattered on the ground, which meant that some at least of the confused memory he had of the stranger who was also himself had not been a dream. Yet it still might be. A second pipe. The birds were singing in the trees. Idly, he picked up a stone and threw it at a tree trunk. A mouse scuttled off, terrified. Clarke allowed his mind to roam aimlessly. His main feeling was a vague sense of shame, not so much for having charged about naked and smeared with grease at the head of crazy hordes of savages, but for all the rest, all the improbable things he had witnessed and accepted: ducks as big as people, impromptu throat-slittings, a drunk flying over his head, a column of warriors riding through underground tunnels, his double rising to meet him at midnight . . . man, he philosophized, can get used to anything . . . because he starts by getting used to taking reality for real. What if he tried fishing? In the shady waters of the stream he could see the moving outlines of some fat, long-toothed fish. He had some hooks in his saddlebags, but he would wager that the Indians had stolen them by now. It would be easier to shoot a brace of coots, but then he would have to pluck them . . . but of course, he would have to scale the fish in any case . . . sometimes at least there was something to be said for polygyny, having thirty-two, or at least seventeen wives.
Clarke was mulling over his choices when he heard the sound of galloping close by. He got up to see who it was. A skinny Indian with a troop of magnificent ponies behind him. As he drew closer, Clarke could see he was wearing clothes. Closer still, and it was Carlos Alzaga Prior, with a smile from ear to ear, and one of those ears bandaged. They each raised a hand in greeting at the same moment, and laughed nervously together. It was a pleasure to see the boy, despite all his craziness and his endless chatter, especially because the pleasure was mutual, and sincere. Carlos leapt to the ground and gave him an extravagant embrace, even though they had seen each other barely three days before.
“Vale, vale, salutis, Clarkenius!”
“Hello there, madcap.”
“Don’t pretend to be so cool! You’re a hero! You’re being talked about everywhere! You’re the new Hannibal!”
“Come off it. I’ve been asleep for I don’t know how many . . .”
“You deserve it. And you haven’t got a scratch, as far as I can see. Have you been hiding in a gopher hole? Hahaha.”
“What about your ear? Did someone chop it off?”
“No, don’t worry. They overdid the bandaging, that’s all.”
“But what was it? A lance? If it was, it just missed your ideas.”
“No, no such luck. I’m ashamed to tell you. What happened was that I wanted to have my ear pierced so I could wear a ring, and the brute who stuck the needle in made a mess of it. You can’t imagine how it bled!”
Clarke lifted his eyes to the heavens. The two of them sat down on a bank strewn with violets which, after a week’s constant watering, gave off a strong perfume. It was then that the Englishman learned of the Vorogas’ surrender, of the armies going their different ways, of the celebrations that must by now be going on in Salinas Grandes, even though Cafulcurá had still not reappeared. Carlos had heard that Namuncurá had turned up though, and had taken control.
“So they don’t need me any more,” Clarke said.
“They’ll always need you, those blockheads.”
“Where did you get so many splendid horses from?”
“There was an amazing share-out! I made sure I laid my hands on a few, because I reckoned that a bohemian like you would be on his uppers by now.”
Clarke observed that Carlos was more grown-up, more self-confident, that he considered himself an adult, his equal, as he launched into his overwhelming stream of anecdotes.
“By the way, aren’t you the slightest bit hungry?”
“Ravenous. When you appeared I was just thinking of hunting or fishing something.”
“Don’t be so primitive! Do you take this for the Stone Age? I brought some roast birds, and I don’t know how I managed not to eat them on the way.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Some Indians told
me. Just as well I believed them, even though I’d seen you head off in the opposite direction.”
When he came back with the food, he asked curiously:
“Am I mistaken, or did you say you spent the whole of yesterday asleep?”
“That’s right.”
“How’s that possible, when I saw you yesterday in that spectacular charge among the deer?”
“The deer?” Clarke was momentarily puzzled.
“I saw you clear as day!”
“Really? Do you know something? I think I have a double.”
Carlos accepted the idea immediately, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He described that particular combat, when a crescent of Tehuelche horsemen had unwittingly trapped a huge number of deer in front of them. The Vorogas of course had taken them to be demonic reinforcements, and had fled.
“It was there I met up with Mallén, who must also have thought it was you, because he said: ‘That Englishman knows every trick in the book.’ So you have a double . . . where did you/he come from?”
“How should I know? He turned up here, when I was about to go to sleep. I thought it must have been a dream, but now with what you’re telling me . . .”
“He’s entirely real, I can assure you. And even though I only saw him from a distance, I was sure it was you. The same face, the same bearing, that dandified look you have, but at the same time like a wise man, as if you’re constantly thinking about Newton’s binomial theorem.”