He’s coming back as strong as a man, with a treasure in the bag. But he was plenty mad at the old man for taking him for a ride like that, fooling him about what was inside, dangling so many things before his eyes. When Rafael opened the bag, once the granddad had kicked the bucket, he almost wept, even if anger immediately took over—the liar, the bastard, what did he think, that the boy would abandon him if he gave him nothing better to hope for? The old man had misjudged him, had really gotten him wrong. And yet now he wonders, because of the old man’s lie, what would have happened if there hadn’t been the bag? Would he have given up sooner? Rafael knows that as long as there was care to be given, he wouldn’t have budged from there, bag or no bag. Of course it was better with the bag. But how can he imagine what he would have done if there had been no bag, when it was most definitely there, that damned satchel, how can you question something that didn’t happen, rewrite history? He lowers his arms, gives some slack to Halley; the horse eases into a canter. Behind them, tied to one another, the horses surge forward; he didn’t even need to pull on the rope. He turns around to look at them, their muscular bodies, the dust of the gallop, their nostrils flared with the thrill of the race. He lets them run flat out for a while, all four of them, he’s intoxicated by their husky breathing and the pounding of hooves on the ground, by the rolling movement between his knees, and the horses on his left surging forward, Halley won’t let himself be overtaken, he’s sure of that, if he has to he’ll go and corner them at the side of the trail. His heart is beating with pleasure, you’d think he’s been deprived of it for years, the wild joy of eating up the space and being his own source of wind, his hair wild, he spreads his arms, lets go of the reins, and Halley gallops straight ahead.
And then without warning there it is just ahead of him, he is almost taken by surprise, he should have recognized it, of course, but maybe he wasn’t expecting it anymore, and he is startled when he realizes what it is, and what it means; he’s arrived, it’s there before him. The road that leads to the estancia.
In his guts there’s a burning sensation and it’s not impatience, no, it’s much more like fear—the way the mother will look at him, the brothers’ words, so harsh, fear that it will all start again. So he brings the horses to a halt, the time it takes for his hands to stop trembling, the time to catch his breath, he feels he cannot breathe, a little more and he’ll suffocate, everything’s a blur. For a moment he thinks he should dismount, but out of pride he cannot arrive at the estancia on foot like some beggar, he has four horses with him, he owed them three, he’s got one more now too, honestly of the four he has to ride one of them, for sure, he has to stay in the saddle, in the saddle with his back straight.
Between his knees he can feel Halley’s shudder. The horse recognizes the road, too, and the little brother cannot tell whether he wants to keep going forward or bolt, because that would be one way out, too, spin around and leave, now, right away, before anyone has time to see them or hear them or get a whiff of them. The chestnut awaits his orders, his ears flicking from left to right, and nothing filters through, regarding what he’d prefer, it’s impossible to tell, he’s leaving it up to Rafael. Who is looking out toward the mesetas, the ground they covered far beyond the forests and the lakes, and life wasn’t easy there either, and he became disenchanted with freedom, it’s too great a burden, freedom, when it’s nothing but a void, to do what. Ahead of him a reassuring routine is holding out its arms, reassuring and tough, a bed and meals all ready, livestock to raise, meat and wool, all reasons to get up in the morning—he saw how dismal it was those long weeks when he had nothing to do but look after the old man, when all the significance of the day lay in a dressing to change or some maggots to remove.
And yet he can’t resign himself to it, to keep moving toward the gray buildings, he’s held back by some indefinable instinct reminding him of the dark hours, the violence, the insults, the exhaustion, it’s only a few yards from there that all that happened, has he forgotten so easily? If he could say that the mother or the brothers had given him anything approaching warmth or affection, he’d go there at once. But he can’t even be sure of that, and now that he thinks about it, not a single tear comes to his eye, nor does his heart relent, it’s as hard and dry as the rock he’s been walking on for days, this rock that has worn and cracked the horses’ hooves. Turn around. He hesitates. He’s been thinking about it without realizing ever since he left the cave, he has a premonition that he won’t be as lucky the second time around. No doubt deep down he already knows his salvation lies in leaving the estancia behind for good, a matter of minutes for him to make up his mind, a sad figure among the horses, no one looking at him, no one waiting.
Except the dog. Suddenly Three springs up when he sees him, races down the lane yapping frenetically, first to give the signal, but there is also a smell that makes him hesitate and lift his legs higher as he charges, like a question mark, this smell coming on the wind now and that he’d recognize among a million others, he’s been waiting so long, and he almost comes to a halt, then bounds forward faster than ever, and it’s not his hind legs driving him but his heart and his chest, pounding, elated.
As the dog comes up to them and looks at the little brother with eyes overflowing and a joy that catches in his throat in plaintive cries, Rafael bursts into tears. He didn’t want to get off his horse, didn’t want to come back to the estancia, all things considered, it was as if the prison door had been open and now he was going back inside of his own free will, a stupid, useless loyalty, because nothing would change, the bag would not transform the mother or the brothers and his own life would remain the same. He really had to seize the opportunity, quickly, while the horses were quiet, motionless. He knew he’d been spotted, because of the barking; from where he stood, he could make out a figure, unmoving, the mother no doubt, who must be looking at him. Had she already realized it was him, coming home? She should have moved, started running. Shouted his name. But she just stopped, to watch and listen. And then she turned to someone who was coming, it had to be Mauro, standing so tall above her. He too was looking down the lane. In that moment the little brother was sure of it, he mustn’t go there, unless he was resigned to continue with life the way it had always been, and expect nothing, and if one day he had to point a finger, well, he’d have only himself to blame, because he’d had his chance, it was there in his hands, all he had to do was pull on the reins, swing the horses round, he was about to do it, in his mind he was already gone.
That is when the dog came up with his love-struck eyes, and in a rush the memory of his cuddles and closeness came back to Rafael, the way the dog would lie curled up next to him when he was recovering from a thrashing, and whimper as if he too had been beaten, and when the little brother reached for his coat to cry into, he would bump his brow against the boy’s, and place his nose against his cheek and his tears.
And so in spite of his conviction that he should turn around and flee at a gallop, in spite of his certainty that nothing good could ever come of the estancia, Rafael jumped off his horse to take the dog in his arms.
MAURO
The mother calls him and, alarmed, he comes; the mother never calls. She says nothing, but she is looking out at the lane and now he follows her gaze, he sees those figures at the end of the road but cannot make them out, they are still too far away. His first reflex is to reach for a stick. He doesn’t think it could be the little brother, he gave up on him days ago. When he glances questioningly at the mother, he senses that she too has no idea who’s stopped there, and he scratches his head, wonders if he should fetch his rifle. He doesn’t understand why the dog raced off down the path and is barking like that, as if he were ready for a celebration, not at all his usual throaty and angry growls, so Mauro narrows his eyes and scans the horizon, and the sun behind the figures of the man and the horses hinders his view, despite his hand held up to shade his eyes. All he knows is that they are coming toward the estancia.
Three is with them, hopping and leaping, filthy creature not even capable of guarding his home.
When they get even closer, Mauro picks up his rifle and starts walking toward them, slightly ahead of the mother, a dozen yards or so—then she tells him to stop where he is. Don’t move, let them come. He keeps his eye on the man’s movements, his hands, any possible weapons. Doesn’t see anything. And then he is the first to recognize him, the boy out there, and he nearly stumbles.
The little brother.
It is strange how at that very moment, just when Mauro should have let out a big sigh, let go of all the tension he’s been feeling for days and weeks, to succumb to relief at last, it is just the opposite that happens. A lump of hatred sticks in his throat, he doesn’t even know why, instinctively, something uncontrollable, and it occurs to him that he could go ahead and fire, he could swear to the mother afterward that he didn’t recognize him, that he thought . . . A bandit, a criminal. The steppe is full of them. But he doesn’t move. He watches them coming, close together like a clan entering forbidden territory, vaguely anxious, and Three is running in and out of Halley’s legs, if he wanted to hide from Mauro then that’s just what he’d do, when Mauro’s been feeding that mangy dog since Rafael left, look how it betrays him first chance it gets.
Now Steban has joined them, next to the mother, and now she, too, has seen, Mauro heard her come up behind him. Christ’s blood. She stepped closer to him. No one rushes forward, though, neither the newcomers who are walking slowly, sniffing the humans who are waiting for them, nor the mother and the two sons watching them approach as if they were strangers, there is no haste on either side, maybe they are thinking of what to say. Mauro turns his head and asks the mother:
“What’s that horse?”
She gives a shrug and he looks at the bay, too tall for a criollo, it’s the only one he’s interested in, he knows the others, the little brother and the horses, so what. And even when Rafael is right there before them Mauro is looking at the bay, straight ahead of him, staring hard at him, he only looks at his brother afterward, says nothing, even if he immediately noticed the change in the boy’s thin face, and the bitter set to his mouth. He says nothing, because that’s all he needs to know, there it is, the little brother has come back, he’s not exactly thrilled but what’s done is done, and he’s standing in the mother’s way, she’s behind him, pushing him a little, she doesn’t say a word, either, there are no embraces, it’s as if they’d parted the night before and it’s all perfectly normal, because they don’t know any other way to behave, and basically there’s no love between any of them.
The little brother rides up with the horses to Mauro, the mother, and Steban, stops, relaxes the reins and puts his hands on the pommel, braces himself in the saddle. He doesn’t dismount, he forces them to raise their eyes to look at him, they’re astonished he doesn’t get off, and the tall twin would like nothing better than to grab him and pull him out of the saddle and teach him some manners, but the mother doesn’t budge and he won’t do it without her consent. Because it’s up to her to speak first, not him, Mauro, not even Rafael who they thought was dead and has now returned, their gazes riveted on him, and he looks only at the mother, his dark eyes joyless, unkindly—is this really what he expected? At that moment the little brother hesitates and Mauro feels a fierce joy to see him like that, disconcerted, he’s surely thinking he was wrong to come back, wrong to believe the mother would forgive him, or maybe even be happy to see him, what else, while we’re at it? Because he thinks he’s indispensable? The tall twin snickers to himself. The mother’s eyes, shining with anger, are answer enough for him. He goes on watching the kid fidgeting in the saddle, then turning around to reach behind him for the satchel, suddenly perking up, and Mauro frowns because he doesn’t recognize that bag—and yet he has a prodigious memory for things, and he’s absolutely sure he’s never seen that bag. Rafael has a sudden joyous air about him, he takes the three of them in with his gaze, the mother, Steban, and Mauro, he holds out his arm, freezes. So he wants to play, the little bastard, let their mouths water from wondering what might be in that fucking bag so that he can break into a smile, amused, like some kid who has brought them a nice surprise, sure of the impact it will have, oh, it had just better be worth it, keeping them in suspense like this, or else, mate, or else.
And all the while Mauro is seething with impatience and hostility, while Rafael is jovial, almost feverish, they both open their mouths to speak, of course they’re so different, Mauro full of fury and Rafael practically shaking with cheer, and the words are welling in their throats, they’re about to speak, when without warning the mother cuts them off, before they have time to say a word, she says, looking at the little brother:
“So you’re not dead after all.”
He could hug her, the mother, for interrupting Rafael, making his face fall with that mean little greeting of hers, crushing his unbearable cheerfulness and excitement, the victor’s return with that smug expression on his ugly little insolent face. You need these decisive statements to put things in their place, and she must have sensed it, too, that she had to react, that the little brother was still the little brother, in his place, not even daring to breathe—he comes after the mother and the older brothers, just ahead of the dogs. Mauro feels like laughing, clapping his hands. He narrows his eyes and merely watches Rafael as he climbs off his horse now, as if stunned, and puts the bag at his feet and bends down to undo the buckles, and there is no more joy or eagerness in his fingers as they tug at the straps, even though the other three have their gazes riveted on him and the flap on the bag, still closed. Mauro has a sharp intuition that there is something waiting for them inside the bag, otherwise the little brother wouldn’t be so focused, unfastening the straps, and he promises himself he won’t cry out, he bites his lips in advance to keep silent, for fear of spoiling everything, irreparably. But it is Rafael himself, as he is opening the bag, who hesitates, and yet he knows what’s in there, and the other three step closer, their curiosity aroused, the mother first, and she lets out a cry.
“Good heavens, where’d you steal that from?”
Mauro has seen what the bag contains, too, and he feels a twinge of lust in his guts, he looks at his brother, ready to cut his throat if the mother tells him to, suffocating with a visceral hatred, why did the little brother find this bag and not him, it should have been him, with a slash of his knife he can change the story, and the temptation is burning so badly that he stumbles. The mother thinks he wants to take the bag, and with a dark look she holds out her arm to stop him. He steps back, shaking his head. Very quickly Rafael says:
“I didn’t steal it. There was this old man I found on the steppe while I was looking for the horses. After he died I came back with his criollo and the satchel, it’s the truth, I swear.”
The mother wipes her brow, sweat pearling as if she suddenly had sunstroke.
“What do you mean?”
“I tried to make him better, with plants, right, but he had a bad wound. I couldn’t save him.”
“And this bag was his?”
“Yes.”
“And what else? What did he tell you?”
“Nothing. He didn’t talk much.”
Mauro interrupts, his voice deep and trembling: “Who was this guy?”
“I don’t know. I just found him.”
The four of them exchange glances, Steban with his empty gaze, the little brother tensely waiting, the mother and Mauro incredulous. The old lady has to lean over the bag again and murmur, “I can’t believe it . . . ”
She kneels down, and there is a gleam in her eyes, a strange shining. She holds out her hand, hesitant, moves it closer. And then she touches the bag, but first she holds back for a long while, and Mauro can feel a tingling in his arms, the same she must be feeling, maybe she’s thinking there’s a trap somewhere, anyway that’s the sort of thing he would think, wary as he i
s, and he feels uneasy, for Christ’s sake, let her go ahead and put her hands in there, so we’ll know.
Then as if she had heard him, all at once the mother grabs fistfuls and fistfuls of bills and stares at them, breathless. She stays like that, not moving, the bills crumpling in her hands, waiting perhaps to be struck by lightning. But nothing happens. She looks at the sons, petrified, like a statue, and still nothing happens; after a few moments she lowers her head, evaluates the contents of the bag with a quick glance. Places her palm over her heart.
“God almighty. There must be millions. Gotta be, millions.”
And no one laughs, or even smiles, other than Rafael, who says, “We’re rich.”
They stand there dumbfounded, the mother and the brothers, and the little brother waits, grows weary, takes the bills from the old lady’s hand and puts them back in the bag and closes it again. As he is about to put it on his shoulder, she rushes over to him.
“Leave it. I’ll take it. You look after the horses. Mauro, Steban, give him a hand.”
“Are you glad, Ma? Does the bag make you happy?”
She looks up from her bowl of soup, frowning.
“Shut up.”
He plays for a few seconds at drawing images in the broth, then persists.
“But it’s a good thing, no, that I brought it home?”
This time it’s Mauro who speaks before the mother, and he looks sternly at the little brother, as if he’s done something stupid.
“Shut up, she said.”
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