That would mean too far away; of course it’s impossible.
“Señora . . . ”
The mother studies the woman gazing imploringly at her. Of course she, the mother, is the best solution, she’s poor and already old, who else is there to ask when you don’t want to get your hands dirty. This fine lady would never have called her señora if she didn’t have a knife to her throat, but she’s glad to find her there tonight, and she’ll add a full purse if she has to, all the mother has to do is nod her head and say yes. This is the way it has always been, the rich get the poor to wash their sins away for them, they discharge their blood and shame on them, because the poor don’t care, and the poor in turn transform dirt into money. It doesn’t bother them to hold out their hands; they’ve been doing it for centuries, like washing away shit, and they may hold their noses but in the end they do it and it’s always good enough for them.
The mother stands there in the dark swaying from side to side, and anyone who saw her would think she’s hesitating, that she’s about to topple, and it’s true, it would be no sweat off her brow to drown the infant, no worse than a kitten, now that she knows how much better it is to get rid of them. What she’s trying to work out is how much the woman will offer her. How much Gomez is prepared to give to wipe away yesterday and the day before, as if it were possible, as if people won’t snicker every time he crosses the street ahead of them, with or without a little dark-faced child, and everything that goes with it. She wonders if the Negroes in San León have already fled, for fear of being lynched, or has the guilty man stepped forward.
Ten thousand pesos.
As if they think life will go back to normal, afterward. It will take years for people to stop talking. Years of coming up with more or less improbable theories about the child’s fate. Did they kill it? Did they sell it as a slave? Did they abandon it somewhere; if so, where, to whom? To get those wagging tongues to fall silent, the only remedy is time.
Twenty thousand.
And even if this is the way things have always been, the mother feels a surge of rage to see herself as the villain in the story, an inferior woman who isn’t offended by anything anyone asks of her, because God knows how those people imagine she lives, and how many other undesirable children she would have already killed for a few coins, children and cats, and fathers—has that fine lady sitting there before her thought about fathers? If she only knew.
The mother recalls that it is not a hard thing, to kill. Sometimes it comes without thinking, without doing it on purpose. And if you have to do it on purpose, what does that change? Mauro will bash it—like bleeding a rabbit. One blow to the back of the neck. A hole in the ground. No risk it’ll wake up once it’s buried in there. Filthy rich people.
Whereas if the mother says no. She suddenly intuits that this is where her power lies, in her ability to refuse, the strength of her obstruction, her strength, period, not to go down on her knees this time. It would be too easy to take the money and bury the infant; ever so easy to get rid of it for them. All she has to do is say no.
Even for thirty thousand.
Good God, thirty thousand.
She almost chokes imagining the full purse gradually receding from her, and all the while she’s pushing it out of her mind she can feel her fingers curling back as if they could get hold of some of it, grab the leather edge, as if it were nothing, slip her finger in it, bring out a coin or two. To make her victory total. As she stares at the starry sky, without seeing it, with her strange thoughts, the woman there beneath her whimpers, her face wretched, the pain in her eyes so powerful you could weep. But the mother is unacquainted with pity; she will never return a thing she has never been given. Who would have come to her aid rather than spit on her if she’d had a bastard child like that? She would have dealt with it, she’d have had to, because no one would have helped her. Of course she would have thought of killing it. But she would have done it all on her own. Not by choice, but because there was no one there to wash away the sins of people like her.
And so, gently, to see hope light up in the woman’s eyes, she leans closer to them, the woman and the little Negro. And forms her lips into a round “o” to say the word.
And she says no.
The mother dances all night outside the bank, and her shoes beat the rhythm of her slow farandole on the wood, her arms spread for balance like the wings of a large bird, gray and opaque. There are no sounds other than her heavy leaping on the threshold of the house, not even the woman’s sobbing, she left long ago with the little dark-skinned infant in her arms, from way up there behind her window she must be able to hear the mother, going crazy as she counts the steps and leaps, and it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t stop, the mother hopes that Juan, too, up in his room, is clenching his fists, waiting for the old witch to get it over with.
She’s had her revenge, it’s a paltry consolation to be honest, but she won’t have it spoiled. Tonight she’s the winner. At last she can breathe, there’s a spark, and the chill of the night does not reach her, she’s burning, both inside and out. She dances and gestures to the window upstairs, laughing and stumbling, convinced they’re watching her. At times the moon casts a glow on her squat form, and it catches the white light in her eyes, opens her mouth so her teeth shine—teeth like a predator’s. When was the last time she felt this light, if ever? When was the last time she reveled in the sight of a creature more unfortunate than she herself?
The mother dances, still, always, like a drunken old bear.
She feels mean. Alive.
RAFAEL
On the fourth morning—or is it already the fifth?—the little brother begins to hunt. Even if he finds the horses today, his food supply has dwindled, he won’t make it back to the estancia. Taking his rifle, he leaves Halley by the riverside, his nose buried in the damp grass, and he heads off in silence. He doesn’t know the game in this region. On previous days he came across rodents, hares. The guanacos vanished once he entered the forested zone, and he doesn’t know what is making the fleeing sounds he hears on his way. Careful. There’s no sign the pumas have deserted the area to stay near the llamas, their favorite prey. Solitary creatures wandering outside their territory are often the most dangerous, and he advances with his loaded rifle on his shoulder, ready to fire.
Around him the fauna has gradually fallen silent, alerted by a troubling instinct; never since he reached the trees and the lakes has there been such a silence, even when he talks out loud to Halley or sings his lungs out. Until now the birds have always gone on chattering as if they were alone on the planet, and some of the little mammals he met looked at him for a few seconds before continuing calmly on their way. But here. One by one the woodpeckers, blackbirds, and chucaos all leave off their chatter, and nothing is moving, either in the leaves or on the ground. The forest is utterly silent. The little brother looks all around, listens, fails to understand. His breathing is the only sound he can hear, then now and again a bird’s chirring, or a cry of alarm—and then, again, silence.
He parts the lianas. When he looks behind him, the path has already closed on him and he makes marks on the tree trunks to be able to find his way back. He is intrigued by the density of growth, and glances in vain at the sky in hopes of more light. Bamboo bars the way: he’s never seen it before. After an hour has gone by he becomes despondent. The forest has surrounded him, is tightening its hold, eating up the space—the place is too dense even for animals, a fox could hardly squeeze its way through, it would scrape its flanks on the fallen branches. And yet these woods are full of life, and the huge effort of the silent creatures is palpable, they won’t hold out against him for long, he thinks, he can almost sense them wriggling with impatience as they wait for his departure. Sometimes he hears a cry, a lament, immediately stifled. The sound of paws rustling over the ground. Immobility is the worst ordeal for these running, flying creatures, more used to flight than cunning. The boy is impr
essed by the trap, but he won’t be taken in. He stays there. Sits on a gray moss-covered tree trunk that has been there for years, half rotten. He doesn’t move. He remembers stories he’s heard, days of despair when the game outthinks, outsmarts the poacher, when all the other solutions have been exhausted: he will hunt blind. It’s not that he enjoys staying there in the same place for hours without moving, leaning against a tree or hiding in the hollow of a boulder. If he had any choice. Even exasperated by silence, he’ll have to melt into the landscape, make himself invisible—until the animals believe the lie and the forest comes to life again. And gradually the little brother feels the foliage closing around him, the hastily woven spiderwebs shrouding him, he can scarcely believe it. His hands stay motionless despite the insect bites, the itching; he breathes without making a sound. Nature envelops him. For a moment, he wonders if he will be able to get away again. If the lianas are not going to grab his ankles and hold him there forever. He resists the temptation to fight his way out of there. In his mind he says, over and over, I am a tree. I am a tree . . .
Halley is waiting for him, he knows, grazing by the water. Maybe he could boil some grass and eat it, too. But fresh meat . . . for Chrissake. His mouth is watering, he runs his tongue over his lips, as if he might be able to taste that imaginary smell of grilling, the mother’s lamb with spices, the fat making it tender; the sizzling of the oil and laurel leaf in the pan when you put the chops in. Only the mother knows how to sear the meat on the outside and keep it pink within, with its fragrant aroma, and the juice running out onto the potatoes. God how hungry he is all of a sudden.
And then the sound is there, right nearby, on the other side of the bamboo curtain. At first, still engrossed by his vision, he thinks he’s hallucinating, and he doesn’t look. But the shape is coming closer, he can no longer ignore it. He fires. Instinctively, without even knowing what he has fired at. Not a whimper, not a breath. He rushes over.
The little brother has never seen such a big mara—on the steppe, they are skinnier—but the meat is tasty, and all night he smokes the leftovers to have the next day. He takes his time. The horses’ hoofprints are getting sharper on the ground: the end of the chase is drawing near. They’re bound to be slowing down, they’re indecisive, there’s nothing calling them to go farther. They’ve slackened their pace, lowered their horizon. They must have stopped, they sniff the air and its lack of promise, they turn their heads to try and recognize the landscape. But they are lost, and nothing is the same. If the little brother wasn’t riding after them, would they know how to get home? They sneeze, rub their noses. Their neighing pierces the silence. But there is no answer, and they doze to forget their solitude, then set off again, uncertain. Some hours behind them, Rafael thinks of the horses. They’ve been on a long journey, and they will surely have injuries to tend to—sores from thorns, pasterns hurt from so much walking. He thinks he won’t go back right away, give them time to recover. A day or so. Deep down he is reluctant to go back to the estancia, the mother, his two remaining brothers. The punishment he’ll get at the same time, for having taken so long; no matter how he tries to memorize the places he sees, to prove he’s been to the ends of the earth, his welcome will be a bitter one. He already misses his freedom. If only the horses would find a new burst of energy, and the trail would grow fainter, leading away, up into the mountains ahead of him.
Nordeste and Jericho, their backs to the wind, look down on the slope they have just climbed, scattering pebbles downhill with their hooves. Once again the trees grow scarcer, hampered by altitude, the rock shows through and reclaims its territory, with the echo of every infinitesimal noise. There are still groves, thick and light-colored, their roots running along the surface of the soil, anchored in the most invisible cracks.
On the ground there is blood.
Ears back, the horses look all around, alternating moments of vigilance and rest. No one can say why they stopped there, why they decided not to go any further. No one can know if they heard the little brother’s voice ring out in the distance, or the thud of Halley’s horseshoes. Perhaps it’s some familiar smell that has brought them to a halt. Perhaps they are nervous because of the presence behind them.
Nordeste turns his head, clacks his teeth to stop the third horse from coming any closer.
The little brother has to walk up the steep slope, leading Halley. As they make their way he frowns, disoriented by the tracks he has just seen on the ground.
There are three sets.
Three, that’s not right. Something has changed.
He reaches for the rifle. Abandons the effort of silence as they move through this place, surrounded by mountains, an echo betraying him with every step. He feels as if he is about to fall into a huge trap. He does not slow his steps. The proximity of the horses has electrified him.
Standing slightly off to one side from the others, the bay is the first to notice him. Nordeste and Jericho sense the horse’s attention and turn. A faint whinnying. At last.
Scanning the space around him, the little brother stands back.
He looks. Counts—of course it’s idiotic, they’re there before him.
The third horse has no saddle but is still wearing a bridle and bit, his reins dragging on the ground. What the little brother is looking for is his rider.
He stays under cover for a long while, and listens out for sounds, registers every detail on the face of the mountain. If it was up to him, he would wait for hours, but the horses draw nearer, intrigued by his motionless form, they stretch out their noses to sniff at him. They must recognize him because they stand at his side, their gaze telling him they’re relieved to let him take charge again at last. They don’t move when the little brother slips the halters over them. Never taking his eyes off the third horse.
He hitches the horses, then hobbles the bay once he’s removed his bridle; how long has he been on the loose, for the scabs of blood to have dried at the corners of his mouth? The hills all around abound in caves and recesses, their entrances often hidden by thick shrubbery. Dozens of places for a man to hide in, and, his rifle still in his hand, the little brother decides to explore, even if he does not know what he’s looking for—doesn’t know beyond the fact that a bridled horse doesn’t wander around on its own, and he wants to find whoever was with him. Every time he approaches a cave he looks around fearfully, keeps himself well to one side, in case someone tries to jump him; then he calls out, not too loudly, enough to be heard from where he is but no farther, give no clues, attract no attention. There is clearly something wrong, because no one in this country would let his criollo go free with his bit in his mouth, hurting him, injuring his mouth like this.
If he were keeping track, Rafael would make a note that it is in the seventeenth hiding place that he spots the form on the ground. He springs back.
His heart is pounding like never before, his thoughts evaporate. Like a young animal he huddles against the mountainside, stops everything: voice, breathing, thoughts. It takes him several minutes before he dares to cock his rifle, and a few more before he whispers, pressed up against the orange rock and its protection:
“Hey?”
No sound in response, and yet he is sure he saw something. So he says it again, twice, ten times, relentlessly, the way he does with a frightened animal, until it calms down and looks at him. So he can touch it, or slip the lasso over. Hey.
And all at once he hears a grunt. Not an answer, not a word, no, a grumbling, a gurgle, and he cannot tell if it is from a man or an animal, and he has to stop himself from shouting, recoiling, running away. In there, something is moving, the sound of something dragging on, a loathsome breathing. His voice is trembling now when he says again, “Hey? Is anybody there?”
And this time he understands, beneath the rustling.
“ . . . help.”
THE OLD MAN
In the cave, the old man tries to call out. He’s fu
cked, may as well. At that moment anything seems better than dying there all on his own, and yet that wouldn’t be the worst thing, the worst thing would be to die slowly, to feel how he is taking his leave, day after day, with this wretched pain that never goes away and is eating away at him even worse than the wound itself. He doesn’t know how long he’s been hiding in this place that smells of blood and damp stone; he’s lost all awareness. He can tell he’s passed out more than once, that he’s been awake at night, in the morning, never knowing which was which, because that’s the least of his worries, because the hours and days go by, regardless of what he might want to do about it, and the only thing on his mind is suffering.
He didn’t believe in pain. He didn’t believe Nivaldo, years ago, when a bull gored him and they were waiting for a useless doctor, both of them knew it would be pointless, but the old man would have felt guilty if he’d just stood there without moving while his fellow worker passed away. Now and again Nivaldo murmured how it hurt. Every time he parted his clenched lips to spit out a word, blood trickled onto his cheek. He spoke of the terrifying vise of his body, and the tempest inside, and the sensation that everything was draining out of him. He even wished he could stop breathing, so that the pain and the panicky fear would go away, God knows if he could have, and maybe it was a silent prayer to the old man, but he didn’t want to hear it, he didn’t want that blood on his hands, and he went on waiting, saying nothing. The old man could see the intestines throbbing in Nivaldo’s hands like a strange animal that could barely struggle, and he’d looked away. He wished it would be over with sooner. He hoped the doctor wouldn’t come, wouldn’t try anything. Let Nivaldo die without opening him even more, without touching the body that was already gone. But he didn’t understand the pain. The sweat, the ravaged features, he hardly recognized him, flesh curling in upon itself, he could see it all but didn’t believe in it. It was just death, announcing its arrival. The pain Nivaldo was whispering about didn’t exist. He wasn’t even listening anymore, he blocked his ears and merely put a hand here or there on his shoulder, until the man said, breathlessly, “Don’t touch me. It hurts too much.”
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