Nothing But Dust

by Sandrine Collette

  Now the mother is in the kitchen, and daylight is fading.

  And the little brother has just come into the barn.

  Mauro goes toward him, stealing silently across the ground; even the horses don’t hear him, munching their grain with a peaceable sound, the sighs of animals that have eaten their fill, and their nostrils in the bucket between two mouthfuls, water splashing, then they shake themselves.

  Even the horses have no inkling.

  From his hiding place, Mauro observes Rafael in Halley’s stable, caressing the criollo, rubbing his hands over his back, under his belly, along his legs, to make sure there are no open wounds. He checks the nails on the horseshoes—they’ve come slightly loose from the hoof, he keeps an eye, planning no doubt to change them in the next two or three days, never imagining he won’t be able to, because right now there’s nothing stopping him, nothing to make him suppose anything might change dramatically, change his paltry little everyday plans, he can always go ahead and plan his endless chores. As he leans against his horse he is half-dreaming, tired by his days spent in the scythed prairies, moving his hands to loosen the boils that burst on his palms. Happy as they all are that the harvest is over, his cheek against Halley’s flank; the animal perfume drifts over to Mauro.

  So the older brother takes a few steps back, just for the pleasure of walking forward again, dragging his feet and seeing the abject little worm jump with fright, immediately guessing it’s him, Mauro, with his slow, heavy tread, the boy looks all around in search of a way out that doesn’t exist, he’s like a mouse in a trap, and the twin can hardly keep from laughing. He continues his act a little longer and sees him stirring in vain, trying to reach the little overhead light then thinking better of it—too late to blow it out, it’s pointless, everything’s pointless—and finally he slides down the wall, hidden by the horse who has started chewing again; if only he could be invisible.

  Mauro plays the game, calls out.

  “Rafael?”

  He imagines the boy’s heart beating wildly and he says it again, speaking in that drawl, like on those evenings when he steals the mother’s alcohol:

  “Rafael . . . ”

  The anger grips him, makes him boil inside, the same as when an animal resists him and he’s about to flatten it to the ground to give it a lesson, to show who’s in charge, a rope, a slipknot around the forelegs and a sudden jerk, hard, bringing the animal down as it falls with a cry. They’re all the same, steers and little brothers, they still try, and Mauro has to use force to remind them who gives the orders, now and always, if that’s what they want.

  Bending almost double not to be seen, he trots soundlessly toward the stable, stands up straight in the precise spot where Rafael, on the other side, has huddled up to wait for his older brother to go away; he’s so frightened he could wait for hours, but Mauro is there on the other side of the partition, only a few inches behind him, and looking down on him now from his full height he bellows:

  “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  The little brother gives a cry of surprise. Halley starts, swerves. Mauro leans over the stable door and snickers.

  “You thought I wouldn’t see you, didn’t you, little shit?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Then what are you doing down there?”

  The little brother stands up.

  “I . . . I had a stomachache.”

  “And what else?”

  “Nothing, I was just waiting for it to go away.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The tall twin laughs, and drags him by force from the stable. Let’s wait together, why don’t we, as it happens I have to talk to you, you don’t see a problem with that, do you?

  “I was going to go home.”

  “Without an explanation? That’s not good.”

  “An explanation for what?”

  “Are you trying to make fun of me?”

  In the little brother’s gaze there is that fear that keeps him from thinking and would make him say anything just to find an excuse, the fear that stings his eyes and never fails to delight Mauro. The twin knows that Rafael will try to confuse him, either by trying to defend himself or by figuring the older boy will feel sorry for him, so to destroy any hope he puts a stop to it at once.

  “What were you saying to Steban this morning when you were making fun of Joaquin and me?”

  The little brother looks at him, amazed.

  “Nothing! I didn’t say anything!”

  “Try and remember.”

  “I swear I didn’t.”

  “Wait a minute, let me help you.” And he shifts his hips forward and backward in an obscene movement. “‘In the ass, Mauro,’ does that remind you of anything?”

  Now Rafael goes to pieces. He doesn’t try to deny it; his eyes go red and his vision blurs, and he immediately puts his hands around his head to protect himself—too late, because Mauro throws him against the stable door and his cheek slams into the door frame, nearly knocking him out. He collapses without a sound, not even a whimper. Gets to his knees. His hands reach for the wall so he can support himself and wait for the dizziness to fade. Breathing hard, Mauro kicks him. He falls over again. Crawls backwards to a shower of insults.

  “You think you’re going to rule the roost here, is that it, asshole?”

  “No, I promise—”

  “Shut up!”

  The kick in his ribs takes his breath away, and Mauro himself, despite his anger, hesitates for a split second, as if he’s kicked him too hard, as if he wants to make sure the little brother isn’t dead, lying on the dirt floor, his hands curled back upon themselves. In his gesture there is something of the submission of a fighting dog, the moment the weaker dog lies on his back in a gesture of abdication, and Rafael, dazed with pain, rolls over on his side, hiccupping, giving Mauro the sign he wanted: he is still alive. So the twin, enjoying himself too much to be satisfied with such an easy victory, pummels the little brother on the ground, drags him from one thrashing to the next until he flattens him against the cart at the back of the stable, where he tramples him, flinging his heels, grunting and grimacing.

  “Are you going to do it again, worm?”

  “No! No!”

  “I know you’ll do it again.”

  “No, never! Never! I swear!”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  “I promise!”

  Mauro grabs Rafael by his shirt, so violently it tears, then slaps him hard, precisely, and drops him on the ground where he curls up.

  “If I catch you at it again I’ll kill you? Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will do it and you know it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Stop looking at me like a trapped rabbit, you annoy me.”

  “Okay.”

  Mauro kneels down and tilts his head to stare right at the little brother, far too close: for a moment, he’s tempted to give him one last blow, but finally it is enough to delight in his terrified expression. With disgust he says, “Your nose is bleeding, you little shit. You’ll have to wash.”

  A murmur. Yes, Mauro.

  He trembles on hearing the older brother’s grunting, a hoarseness like that of a wild animal unsure whether to attack or to flee, circling around him, frothing at the mouth. The older brother blows his heavy breath in his face, surrounds him with his huge shadow. The horses don’t move, huddle at the back of their stalls with an anxious look, and Mauro knows he frightens them, but let this be a lesson: no one, neither man nor beast, can make fun of him, this applies to the animals too. At his feet the little brother is breathing jerkily, his nostrils pinched, one hand under his nose to stop the bleeding. He moves as little as possible, eyes down. He no longer exists, he’s transparent, vanished into the manure, the earth, and the older brother nods and straightens up.


  “You’re gonna stay here for a while.”

  The little brother nods, exhales.

  “Because this is where you belong, in the shit. I want to hear you say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “No making fun of me, ever, got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. If you tell the mother, you’re dead.”

  RAFAEL

  The older brother walks away and Rafael hears his footsteps fading. For a long while he lies on the ground. The coolness of the earth on his cheek, which is turning blue; his fingers clasping a pebble, to think about something besides the pain. When he opens his eyes the stable is whirling about him. He crawls outside, his mouth open to swallow some air, he leans against the wooden planks they repaired last spring. A sound of something running reaches him but he doesn’t look, he retreats into the dark as if he could disappear.

  Something breathing. Just there.

  The dog’s moist nose, suddenly by his face.

  Tears are flowing down the little brother’s face. Delicately, Three licks them, in an effort to console him. The tears are salty on his cheeks and the dog draws back when he recognizes the smell of blood, looks at the boy, head tilting to one side. A plaintive whine. The little brother would like to reassure him but the words won’t come. All he can do is try to stand, holding his side, and the dog’s presence encourages him, without him he’d have lain slumped there for hours under the stars he cannot see.

  Three escorts him to the house. A moment of hesitation before entering—but the lights are out. His head still buzzing, Rafael gropes his way, finds the latch. The smell of food and tobacco in the room make him nauseous. He pours some water from the pitcher above the sink and carefully cleans himself, sponging his face, patting himself with his fingertips. Banishes the thought telling him that it hurts: he has grown accustomed to pain, not the pain that radiates in a hail of blows, but the throbbing pain of the hours and days to follow—migraines, swollen wounds. When the mother asks him what happened, invariably he says,

  “I bumped into something.”

  And that’s enough for her. Basically, she doesn’t give a damn.

  When the door to the bedroom is flung open, it takes Rafael a few seconds to emerge from exhausted sleep and find his way out of the limbo of his dreamless night; no doubt he thinks it’s a mistake, or a nightmare, because what else could it be, this door smashing against the wall and the angry cry—and right away, the mother’s voice upon him.

  “Get up!”

  And as he opens his eyes and the darkness does not leave one side of his face, the time it takes him to realize that his cheek is so swollen it is blocking his view, she grabs him by the hair and he jumps up with a moan. Adrenaline instantly revives the pain, bursts into his head and along his veins. He gets up to escape but the mother has him in a brutal vise, drags him out of the room, garbling her words of fury, spluttering imprecations he does not understand, his whimpering answers limited to lost spurts of “Ma?” They go down the narrow corridor, past the kitchen where Mauro and Steban are sitting motionless at the table, on out of the house, nearly falling down the three steps of the stoop, so entangled are they, and twisted with pain and rage.

  “See! See!” screams the mother, dragging him into the stable.

  And before they even enter the building, he knows.

  The mother has stopped across from him, next to the stable, her face purple with rage, her hair disheveled. The little brother rushes toward Halley’s box. The chestnut shudders. Looks at him. In Rafael’s eyes, tears of relief: he stayed. Despite the open doors.

  But the mother grabs him again by the shoulder and spins him around, and he can feel her acrid breath in his nose when she yells:

  “Here! What’s missing, here?”

  On the other side, the two stalls are empty. The horses are gone. The little brother opens his mouth, makes as if to hurry out: Outside?

  “I already looked.”

  “They’re not there?”

  “No.”

  “In the field, behind?”

  “I already looked, I said! They’re gone. Gone!”

  “Ma . . . ”

  He falls silent. To tell her what? That yesterday after Mauro thrashed him, he forgot? That it was all he could do to stagger into the house and lie down weeping on his bed? He knows he’s in the wrong. He’s the one who’s in charge of the horses. If he can’t look after them, he shouldn’t have asked to. That’s the only thing that will make sense to the mother. She won’t listen to excuses or complaints. Standing immobilized outside the deserted stables, the little brother looks with his one eye at the soiled bedding, the turds neatly piled at the far end of the stall, the unfinished hay to one side. He pictures Jericho and Nordeste setting off down the lane that leads out of the estancia, trotting over earth and pebbles, their noses in the air: free. Heading west, toward the mesetas. Into the wind. Entire days before they will encounter a living soul. For a moment he envies them. If it was him, he would never come back.

  Rafael secures the leather satchels to the saddle, makes sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. It’s impossible to know how long he’ll be gone. Logically, he should be home tonight, but he doesn’t want to leave it to chance. So he makes his list one more time. Dawdles a little. Eventually climbs into the saddle and doesn’t move. In the house there is no sign of life. Steban and Mauro have gone to their work, but the mother is still in there. Hiding? No. Indifferent. Punishing. She won’t come out to see him leave, she won’t encourage him, this son who has promised to come back with the horses. He bites his lips. A murmur of resignation to Halley. Hey.

  The chestnut moves forward. Behind him, Three springs up. The little brother cries, “Go home!”

  The dog pauses, undecided. Rafael too, hesitates, because if he listened to his heart he’d take the dog with him. But he knows it’s not allowed. Like all of them, Three belongs to the estancia. It is up to the mother to decide, and the mother would say no—of course. So he repeats his order, barking, “Home!”

  The dog doesn’t insist, and reluctantly heads back the way he’s come. He often turns to look at them riding away, the little brother and the horse, and he sways on his paws as if he doesn’t know where to run. His master’s command seems to be disintegrating in his brain.

  In the distance the sky has turned gloomy, streaked with black clouds, and Rafael can feel the tension in the air. A magnetic storm? Torrential summer rains, furrowing along the rocks, swallowing the earth without soaking it? All the farmers must be looking up right now, hands joined in prayer. God only knows they need the water. But maybe it will pass them by, borne away by the fickle winds, and they’ll look at the bellies of the clouds and dream of shattering them with a rifle—some will even try, certainly, in an insane surge of hope.

  The little brother picks up the horses’ trail. Westward, as he thought. The lure of the plateaus, of the lakes, maybe, farther away, if they go straight without stopping, intoxicated with the improbable promise of better grazing. He himself has only dreamt of those places, knows only what he’s heard about them from the rare gauchos like himself who’ve ridden in search of lost animals, as far as the Andean lands. At the outermost bounds of the country reigns the cold forest, moist and exuberant. Nalcas with huge leaves, the size of a man, plants he sees as something out of a fairy tale whenever the guys recall with a shiver the lianas that, in places, make the undergrowth impenetrable.

  In the early hours of his search, the little brother hopes the fugitive horses will lead him into those unknown territories, among those giant conifers he’s never seen, to hear the song of hidden birds, the fleeing footfall of invisible creatures. Then his gaze adjusts, measures the horizon. Inaccessible. And his own body is shattered, tossed to and fro, wracked with pain at every jolt in the saddle, while his eye, still swollen, hinders him from seeing the tiny trail the horses have le
ft. If they did go that way, it will take him days of wandering before he can catch up with them, and it enrages him to know they are ten hours ahead of him but he cannot spur Halley on to catch them, because he has to keep his eye out for every infinitesimal trace on the rocky ground, every fork in the way, every hesitation; and maybe the horses themselves are already lost, too, in those places without landmarks. What’s more, all through that first day he is wasting time. The plateaus oblige him to backtrack and go around whenever the trails that would have led him straight across have crumbled away, or are too steep for Halley. Sometimes he loses Jericho and Nordeste’s trail altogether, and has to walk with his nose to the ground until he picks it up again—and even then, he is not entirely sure it is their trail, and he wagers that there are only those two horses in this deserted place, because otherwise he would have gone back to the estancia ten times over. But that’s not something he can conceive of. He will go back with the horses, or not go back at all, because the mother is perfectly capable of beating him to death.

  He observes the nature around him, semi-arid, hard pastureland, low plateaus. Wherever he looks, a vast emptiness. Doubt often causes him to rein Halley in. He wonders whether the two nags decided to gallop to the ends of the earth. Instead of going around in circles, nibbling at a bit of grass when a river irrigates the land, he senses the horses have shot straight ahead without stopping. Or else he’s completely lost their trail, misled by the hoofmarks of guanacos.