Nothing But Dust

by Sandrine Collette

  Europa Editions

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  New York NY 10001

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  www.europaeditions.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by Editions Denoël, 2016

  First publication 2018 by Europa Editions

  Translation by Alison Anderson

  Original Title: Il reste la poussière

  Translation copyright © 2018 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  Cover photo SashaS/Fotolia

  ISBN 9781609454340

  Sandrine Collette

  NOTHING BUT DUST

  Translated from the French

  by Alison Anderson

  NOTHING BUT DUST

  To Jean-Michel,

  joyful poet of the bikkie, of little rosés and the whisk broom,

  tireless surveyor of the winding trails in the Morvan,

  of Schopenhauer, and above all, maker of blue sky.

  PROLOGUE

  Argentine Patagonia. The Steppe.

  Because he was the youngest, his brothers had gotten into the habit of chasing him around the house on horseback when their mother wasn’t watching. As soon as the twins had grown strong enough to grab him by the collar and lift him up at a gallop from astride their criollos, it became their favorite pastime. They tallied points for whoever managed to drag him to the corner of the barn, or beyond the old gray wooden outbuildings—then the dead tree, then the genista grove—before depositing him in the dust.

  The little brother always saw them coming. He could hear their shouts, which they emphasized to frighten him; and the sound of the horses breaking into a gallop, the iron shoes striking the ground and coming nearer, causing his stomach to flutter, as if the earth were trembling beneath his feet; and of course the brothers, perched high in their saddles, thought it was funny, their shrill laughter drowning the clatter of hooves.

  He froze, one arm in the air, his hand still holding the stick he’d been using to stir up waves in the drinking trough; never mind if the water was dirty. He stopped dead like a field mouse in the steppe, alerted too late by the rush of buzzards’ wings overhead; he, too, with a panicked look in his eyes, praying that his ears and mind and instinct had deceived him; but then they always fell upon him with only a few strides, raptors swooping on their prey, leaning from their mad horses. Standing there in the middle of the rear courtyard, the little brother did not have time to reach the kitchen, where his mother was chopping, carving, rushing around: he’d barely learned to run when it all began. Once or twice he had tried to call out to her, he thought he could see her stern figure behind the windowpane, grinding meat or slicing vegetables, focused and angry as if she were slaughtering them, but she didn’t hear him, didn’t see him, even the day he managed to bang on the window before Mauro carried him off—or maybe it was because she was so uninterested in his fate that he preferred not to think about it. Truth is, the only thing she did do was give him a thrashing afterwards, shouting that she was fed up with him wetting his pants. And the brothers laughed as they looked on, and shrieked, Bed wetter! Bed wetter! while she obliged him to run bare-bottomed behind her to go get changed, tossing his soiled trousers into the laundry basket with a gesture of furious exasperation.

  In his mind he already knew that he would never escape from their terrifying pursuit; but he tried, against all odds, until the very last moment, even in vain, even when he felt his brothers’ fingers against his skin as they clutched his shirt collar. He waddled on his short little legs, desperately stuck where he was when he should have been jumping and leaping, and he whimpered in terror, which only made Mauro and Joaquin weep with laughter. In the beginning the twins, who were six years older, would join forces to harpoon him from on horseback, grabbing him by the shoulder from either side. It was only after they turned ten that they had the strength required to hunt him individually, and by then Steban, two years their junior, had joined in too, eager to have his turn at the sport.

  Half strangled, his feet pedaling in the void, Rafael watched as the landscape rushed by at dizzying speed; he was being shaken like an old sack, deafened by the criollos’ frenetic race. Already defeated, his eyes half-closed in fear, he could sense the grass and bushes hurtling by, the pebbled path a blur beneath his legs, which he lifted up to keep from being twisted or caught beneath the horses’ bellies, and he quietly prayed that the brothers would not drop him. His cheeks were often sprayed with gravel, and he went home with bruises. His mother would berate him: What the devil have you been playing at this time.

  One day he tripped as he was trying to escape, and his brothers missed him, because he was too low down. So he tried this again every time thereafter, sprawling his full length the moment they began the chase, scrambling to his feet now and again to make his way, between falls, back to the house. The horses would come to a sudden, almost squatting stop, pivot, and head back for him. Down he’d fall again. Sometimes he was struck by a hoof, but only out of awkwardness, because the criollos did their best to avoid him, reluctant to trample on the little form huddled beneath them—and the furious brothers would spur them back, kicking their flanks as they shouted insults, asshole, sissy, piece of shit, to be a man you have to be strong and stand up straight.

  He was four years old.

  The next season the twins had become more agile, and they scooped him up from the ground the way you pick up a ball, they arched against the girth of the saddle, which enabled them to lean down to him.

  And the year after that, they fought over him during the chase. Whoever of the three of them managed to catch him would now have to fend off the attacks of the other two, making his horse dance from side to side, yanking at the bit, digging the spurs into its side to make it go faster. And if the little brother did not want to fall he would hold himself rigid, clinging to a leg or hanging from a strap, because the brothers needed both arms to fight among themselves. And as he heard them panting as they fought each other off, he swung against the horse’s shoulder, his fingers slipping over its damp mane, until at the last minute he was seized by whichever brother had gained the upper hand. And then the chase resumed, over two yards or twenty, and it all started again. Steban regularly managed to outflank the twins before they realized it, and he’d nab the little brother from them over the last hundred yards; they were so unused to being surprised by the half-wit that it put them off their stride every time.

  As the months went by the falls were ever harder. Joaquin had found a spiny thicket on the other side of the stream that he baptized Rafael’s house—he even wrote it in clumsy letters on a wooden sign, placed at the edge, in a spot where he was sure his mother would never go, because otherwise she’d be bound to ask questions and make a fuss. But this far away they were safe, and with his brothers he crossed the stream at a gallop and cried, “Ready to drop the rat in its burrow?”

  As for the little brother, he held his breath, not to swallow any water while they crossed the stream, and he curled up in a ball as they tossed him into the dense branches of the thicket. He would go home with a bloody nose, one eye half-closed, or his cheeks scraped by the thorns where he’d fallen. Sometimes he had to walk for an hour to get home, because his brothers took him further and further away. You’ve got time, they crowed, you don’t do any work! So he sniveled the mixture of blood and snot, trying not to cry in front of them, and he watched them swing their horses round and set off again. He took the path bac
k the way they’d brought him, through the pastures, along the green and orange fields shining in the sun in an expanse of dry grasses and fissured stone. An immense prairie—the steppe, said the mother with pride and a sort of resigned respect—and where it ended the mesetas began, with their rocky plateaus and paths of wind-burned scree. On these prairies of close-cropped grass, barbed-wire fences marked off the thousands of acres where the herds wandered tirelessly, searching for food and covering mile upon mile in order to survive. Moorland as far as the eye could see, arid and flat, so dry even the trees had deserted it, to be replaced, somehow, by a few scrawny thickets you’d think could not possibly survive with so little soil.

  The forests kept their distance, far to the west beyond the plateaus, where altitude reclaims its rights, invisible from the plain. In the little brother’s imagination, these were magical places, carpeted with grasses taller than a horse, vast expanses of inconceivable trees one’s gaze could not contain, blocked at every instant by tree trunks and foliage. One day, when he was grown up, he would go and explore them. When he had his own horse. So he wiped his nose and eyes against his sleeve, leaving a damp brown streak on the dirty cloth. He tried to spit the way his brothers did, but most of the time his saliva dribbled down his chin and he had to wipe it again with his shirt, furious that he couldn’t even manage this one simple thing. Joaquin had promised him he’d learn the day he got his first hair in his butt; every evening he inspected himself painstakingly, disappointed when he saw nothing coming. Often as he made his way home he would join his hands in front of his overalls in the hopes that someone or something would hear his prayers and make him into a solid, hairy fellow, who’d spend half his life on horseback and be able to spit farther than anyone. His gaze swept birdlike over the plateau, encompassing the plain, embracing the world. And the world came back to where it had begun, and it wore the face of the mother’s lands.

  Eight Years Later

  THE MOTHER

  Every morning the mother gazes out at this indigent steppe as she opens the shutters, pausing in her gesture the time it takes to locate the dogs sitting behind the door, whimpering as they wait for their meal. A paltry domain, worth less than its name written on a wooden sign; but it belongs to her, and her alone, and the pride of owning these vast lands goes some way toward consoling her for the desolate vision of earth scorched by wind and drought. The mother feels the tired pride swell in her guts, because not everyone can say the same, out here, that they are landowners, and she has forgotten that the domain came to her from her man, however much of a bastard he might have been. There are evenings when she reminds herself that she came from a family of wretches with neither land nor fortune, and that everything seemed to point to a future of working herself to the bone in the service of others, and she grumbles and ruminates, finds a thousand things wrong with the steppe she’s been left with—well, that was the least she was owed, after all the misery she endured year after year. There is no room for gratitude in the mother’s life: what she has, she deserves. And no doubt she would have deserved better, if only she’d happened upon a different man, but there too, she’d been unlucky, the man was the way he was, as were these meager lands, where her livestock have a hard time finding sustenance—cattle, sheep, and horses alike. Every winter, sick with hunger, exhausted by the cold winds, the weakest ones perish. And yet, to keep up their resistance, she says, she never feeds the livestock fodder—but in fact, it’s because the crops are inadequate.

  Sometimes the mother does not know which way to turn, on her estancia, between the corn that will grow wherever the earth makes an effort, the hay that doesn’t grow fast enough, and the animals that sell poorly. In San León they’ve been saying for years that people ought to stop raising cattle—if anyone still is. They’re not worth it anymore. And what else? shouts the mother. How long have we been bowing our heads? But she has it in her blood, a sort of shameful defeat, with her family of farmhands and servants, and even on her husband’s side, the grandfather had to capitulate when the cereal men and the bigwig stockbreeders moved into the pampas, driving people like them further into the hinterland. They withdrew once again when the railroad came. And yet the markets had never been better, at last Europe was accessible. The first refrigerated ship landed in 1876, and they’d been exporting Argentine beef to France ever since—one hundred and ten days, the passage, and when the ship arrived, there was red meat beneath a layer of fat as if it had been slaughtered only the day before, a proper miracle.

  But naturally this was only a boon to those who could buy huge estates, and organize themselves in firms, and set up industrial farms and transport networks; indeed, the small-scale landowners are bound to disappear. Herds of tens of thousands of beasts and endless fields of crops have already driven them from the pampas, and in the plains of Patagonia where they have sought refuge, the cattle are thin and struggle to put on weight. If you want to survive out here, you have to accept your fate: only the sheep will make it. So they all turned to sheep. Nothing else, and they can’t really complain, because wool has been in demand in recent years, with England scooping everything up for its industry, tens of thousands of tons. The mother spits on the ground. She produces wool, obviously, she has to, and it’s not going too badly; but she would die sooner than she’d give up her Angus and her Shorthorns, or even the handful of Charolaises she paid top dollar for—even if it means eating every last one herself, if she doesn’t find a buyer; if they prefer the pink, fatty meat the intensive farming gives, and which will snuff them out before the second generation. And those machines they’re talking about, to replace the horses in the fields, she couldn’t care less: they’ll never survive the ordeal of the steppe. Does anyone listen to her, for Christ’s sake? They’ll never make it this far.

  Obstinately clinging to her fierce convictions, she counts the pregnant heifers and with her sons she prepares the land, planning, plowing, mending fences as if nothing could ever change. She does not see why she should do things any other way. She doesn’t know how to do anything else, she came to her father-in-law’s house at the age of sixteen. For her, things are immutable.

  And yet the years do go by, and change, and she ought to realize this, if for no other reason than watching her sons grow up. Sometimes she stops what she is doing for a moment to observe them, hard at work. Mauro is a full head taller than his twin, he’s carrying beams, repairing the barn, he’s unusually robust even though he did turn eighteen in the spring, it’s as if all the family’s strength poured into that one boy. Joaquin and Steban are holding the planks, driving in the nails and putting away the fodder, and freeing the trailer from the mud where it got stuck. The little brother is running all around, waving his arms and chattering like a magpie, as always. He puts his hands on a pitchfork or a hammer to help, pressing, driving in, cleaning. And while the mother had a devil of a time getting them to sit still on a chair long enough to teach them the rudiments of writing, now they know how to read and count, just so they don’t get in a muddle when they go to the grocery store or the tobacconist’s. Even though it took her years, where their learning was concerned the mother never gave up, wielding threats and slaps to wake them when they nodded off over their books or their figures—and watching how after every lesson they would scatter across the steppe, like birds kept too long in a cage.

  And during all that time it took to ram something into their heads, the world was busy changing again, the world and her kids, even the youngest, Rafael, who is still skinny but has shot up like a bad seed, with his chestnut hair and fair skin. He must have gotten that from his father, from some extinct generation, whatever the gossips might say, wondering, as for sure they wondered, when they saw the infant the day he was baptized. But the mother has a clear conscience, she of all people knows damn well who allowed him to have his way with her, and plenty often. And when she looks at her last born, such a handsome boy, she can’t help but feel a surge of pride, all the same, she’s the one
who made him, that little brother nobody wanted, who came too late, never mind, he has her smile, from when she used to smile; it makes her uneasy.

  Of course in those early years, when he’d come home all beaten up nearly every day, it was the older boys getting their revenge. They wanted to go on being the three brothers, like when their father was alive. They would have left this fourth brother to be eaten alive on the plain if they weren’t so afraid of her, the mother, the rage in her eyes, her ferocious thrashings. Of course she could have done more to protect him, but it is not in her nature to console. You don’t make a boy if you cuddle him every time he gets a scratch. Let them sort it out amongst themselves: it had been the same for her, she had two brothers and, a very long time ago, a sister who died from a fever at the age of five. You have to have grit to live out here, it’s a hardscrabble life. She’d been raised on thrashings, and so would her kids. So she never said a thing, even now that beatings have replaced the chases on horseback and Rafael has taken to keeping to himself, like some undesirable beast in a herd, with his dozens of little scars on his cheeks and arms. To avoid his older brothers while they’re rubbing down their horses in the stable at night, he carries on working outside. He joins them at the supper table, soundlessly, creeping in, catlike. The shadow of a bruise dusts his cheeks. Steban goes on eating without looking up, unspeaking, far away from them, as always. The twins snigger into their plates. Suddenly fall silent when the mother turns to them, looking furious, her hand ready to fly with a slap. She hates them when they’re like this.

  She hates them all the time, all of them. But that’s life, too, she had no choice. Now that they’re here. Sometimes she reckons she should have drowned them at birth, the way you do with kittens you don’t want; but there it is, you’d have to do it right away. Afterwards it’s too late. It’s not that you get attached: it’s just no longer the moment, that’s all. Afterwards, they look at you. Their eyes are open. And the mother really did think about it, but she missed her chance. So on days when she cannot stand the sons anymore, she takes revenge just by thinking that she could have done it. They were within her grasp. All she had to do was drop them in the water. And they will never know just how much they owe her, even the simple good fortune of being alive. When she hears them sniggering at the table, she remembers how each one of them was born, her doubts, her temptations. She bites her tongue to keep from speaking—of course it would be such a relief, but she has to hold that card back for a special day, a real day of hatred, black and deep.