Nothing But Dust

by Sandrine Collette

  That is how everything changed, where the satchel was concerned; that is how the little brother was swindled, by the mother and the brother, and no doubt it’s no coincidence if Mauro has been making fun of him all his life, it’s not that he too is a half-wit, but he does believe everything people tell him, even a sheep could tie him up in knots. Because it’s obvious, when the mother comes back out, she’s got it all worked out. Regarding the money that Mauro took, Rafael can forget about it, they settled the matter between them inside the house, he can tell from the mother’s bloodshot eyes that she must have been weeping with rage to know that the money was gone. Now it’s over. Now, they have to be careful—and she lectures them, her voice low, a little circle with her and the three sons in a huddle outside the house, she’s practically whispering, they mustn’t let on all at once that they have so much. Steban interrupts her.

  “But w-what?”

  And when the mother looks at him, of course he is startled, how could he forget, he apologizes: Ah. Yes, and the mother continues. People in town would think it was odd. They’d come snooping, ferreting around with their filthy gazes, asking questions the sons would end up answering, clueless oafs that they are. Might as well get things clear right from the start, she says, listen to me, there was never any old man—and as she hammers out her words she looks the little brother straight in the eye and adds, I’m talking to you, Rafael, do you understand, from now on you never saw any old man. The money was already here, hidden in the house, it’s mine, got that? Otherwise they’ll take it from us. And Rafael, lost:

  “But I found it out there when I was looking for the horses.”

  “You didn’t go out there. You never went anywhere.”

  “But—”

  Mauro suddenly cuts him off, grabs his arm.

  “You pretend nothing happened, get it, blockhead? You never left the house. The mother found the money hidden in the barn, must be the father who hid it there before he left.”

  And the mother nods. That’s right.

  “Oh, I s-see,” says Steban in turn, stunned.

  “So what are we actually going to do with it?” asks the little brother.

  “Don’t go mixing everything up,” says the twin. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  The mother stands up.

  “Yes, tomorrow. The main thing is not to attract attention, we’ll use it when we go to wool or livestock markets, a bit more, a bit less, no one will notice. Off you go.”

  The four of them scatter, and Rafael replays the discussion in his mind, staring at his hands as if they carried some sort of answer, on the one hand who he thought he was, the runaway horses, the wounded old man, the cave, the money, and on the other, what the mother just said, no horses, no old man, no bag. And slowly he opens and closes this right hand that doesn’t match, he turns it over, examines it, does the same with the left, silently articulates once again, the criollos, the old man, the bag, no horses, no old man, no money, and obviously the two don’t go together, he waves his hands, and in the end, disconcerted, lets them hang down at his sides. That is when he realizes he’s been had, that the mother and Mauro have ganged up against him. And he doesn’t like it.

  Breakfast like any other day. On the table the same things to eat and drink as every morning. And yet nothing is the same, and the sons’ hands are trembling, feverishly, their eyes are shining, searching in vain for a new wallet set down there before them, or for the bag on the floor. The mother serves them, not speaking, impassive: just to look at her the little brother would swear nothing had ever happened, neither his return two days ago nor the money that is seeping into them and making their heads spin. She is so perfect in her dour role that Rafael hesitates: what if he dreamt the whole thing? What if the mother was right, the day before, when she said that there hadn’t been any old man or any bag. And he looks again, and turns around to glance behind him, but everything has vanished and the floor is empty, and the mother grabs him.

  “What do you think you’re looking for?”

  “But the—” And he catches himself just in time, when he sees Mauro’s dark look.

  One second more and he’d have been in for it; he rubs his forehead. He gets up all of a sudden to go and check out the window, and freezes. But look. The bay is grazing in the paddock outside, proof that . . . and he feels the relief in his throat, he’s not crazy after all, in spite of what he’s been told to think. It all goes whirling through his mind in that moment—the money, the new life, and the nagging anxiety that’s been lodged inside him since Mauro’s return releases its grip, and the impression that things are not going the way they should, it’s all swept away, all that’s left is his happiness that Joaquin didn’t come back, and a certain excitement, wondering how the mother will spend what’s in the bag, what he’ll ask for for himself, how they will live. There they are, the three sons, perhaps they are sharing the same expectations, looking up at the old lady, and she is waiting, too, but for something else, and Rafael has no patience, in his voice that has not yet changed he utters the first words of the day.

  “What are we doing, Ma?”

  Oh, the brief moment of silence. Maybe she herself was surprised by his question, because she drew her brows together in a questioning look, not for long, and the little brother cannot understand what is going on in her head, or only slightly, something to do with yesterday, and caution, to be sure, yes, he remembers, don’t talk loud. But they will go to San León, won’t they? To buy clothes and cigarettes. At least have a beer. He dreamt about it that night and, still droopy, he says—just in case the mother is having a slow start to the morning:

  “We going to town?”

  And at first she glares at him incredulously, then with anger, and it rumbles inside her, he can almost hear it. He senses he’s made a mistake, but too late, because the mother suddenly snaps her dish towel against the back of his chair and he jumps, if she’d slapped him with it, it would have been no different.

  “How in the name of Christ is it possible to give birth to such stupid kids.”

  He huddles on his chair, stupefied, then angry. He glances over at his brothers, who give him a mean look, what an idiot to get the old lady in a bad temper first thing in the morning, even if they too are dying to know. The little brother shrugs, then looks down at the floor as the mother’s shrill voice singles him out, with Steban.

  “You two bring the shorthorns back here to see which ones are pregnant. Mauro, you get the paddock ready. And you two, watch out for the bull.”

  Now the tall twin protests.

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to hear. From you or the others. Get going.”

  So one by one they do as they are told—it’s the tall twin who obeys first, his allegiance to the old lady is unfailing, even when he’s seething with anger, even when he gives the impression that there are claws holding him to his chair, he is that reluctant to get up and go out, but Rafael also complies, the mother has her reasons, she doesn’t make mistakes, she’s much smarter than the three of them put together, and an obscure force compels him to obey orders without thinking. And yet he’s so angry at her, and he doesn’t understand the way she does things! He could laugh and cry by turns, and when he walks past her to leave the room, he looks at her the way the others did, questioning, sullen. It’s only once he’s outside that it takes hold of him all of a sudden, inexplicably. He begins to laugh. Look at the fine way he was taken in when he came back and handed the bag over to her, really he ought to be hopping mad, but he isn’t, he’d rather laugh about it; if only he’d known.

  They saddle the horses, not saying a word, there is only Rafael’s laughter escaping him in spite of himself. Mauro gathers the pickets and the sledgehammer and his jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t yell at Rafael to shut up, doesn’t rush over to hit him; it’s not for any lack of anger, but something is holding him back, he clearly doesn
’t understand why the little brother is laughing like this, it almost worries him, his gaze is unfocused. Eventually he walks off, banging the handle of the tool against the gate. Steban is getting impatient.

  “Y-you ready?”

  “I’m coming. Where are the shorthorns?”

  His brother doesn’t reply, he’s already in the saddle, waiting. It is only once they have gone through the gate of the estancia that he motions with his chin to the east. The criollos walk side by side, spirited, not bothered by the dust. Steban looks behind him, as if someone might overhear, but there is so much wind today that even the dogs have decided not to follow them. Rafael sees Steban concentrate for a moment before he manages to say:

  “Wh-where is it?”

  “What?”

  “Bag. The bag.”

  “Oh. The money? She must have put it somewhere safe so it won’t get stolen.”

  “For . . . for her.”

  The little brother gives a snort of laughter. What the hell. He cannot stand Steban’s sorry look, staring at him from his horse with a crooked smile.

  “You lost. Everything.”

  And it does something to him to hear it, even though he knows that Steban is right, but to be seen as the idiot of the family yet again is deeply unsettling, particularly when it’s Steban who has taken the liberty of telling him, so he holds his chin up and says, practically hissing:

  “What did you think, that I had no idea she’d do that? I did it on purpose. I couldn’t care less about the money.”

  And the half-wit bursts out laughing on hearing his words. This raises Rafael’s hackles, so much so he’d gladly smash his face in for laughing like that at him, and he’s the one who never calls Steban a half-wit, but now he feels he has every right to, just look at him with his mouth wide open on his teeth already going to rot, and the noisy way he’s mocking him, Rafael hates him at that moment, it’s all he can do not to hit him, so he shouts, Shit! It’s my money! I have the right to take what I need, don’t I? You understand that? Don’t you think so, too?

  He knows it’s pointless braying like this in front of Steban; now the boy is clapping his hands and saying, Think so. Think so. But it feels good to take it out on him, the only one on the estancia he’s not afraid of, the only one he can shake or insult without fearing he’ll get a hiding in return, because where the rest is concerned—solidarity, trust—forget it, there’s no one he can count on. So the little brother splutters with anger and spite, for as long as he can give vent, settling pointless scores, shouting his lungs out with abuse, and when finally he grows hoarse, he pays no attention to Steban, whose face has grown stern, and he thinks about the money, bitterly, how this morning all four of them should have been woken up laughing and celebrating their luck. Right down to the mother who hasn’t changed a thing, shoving them out the door the way she does every day, the cattle won’t wait, what do they care if the little brother came home with a bag full of money, will that tend their needs, put water in their troughs?

  “There,” says Steban.

  The massive shapes, their dark red, roan coats, on the plain up ahead of them. Rafael forces himself to set aside his bitter thoughts, he gauges the distance, the small but scattered herd.

  “We should have brought a dog.”

  Steban shrugs. They ride over to the herd, blending into the landscape with the cattle, who hardly notice them; they locate the dominant cow thanks to the bell around her neck, a mature female with a brown coat. Steban holds up his hand.

  “Me.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait here. Watch out for the bull: he’s over there on the left.”

  The half-wit glances at the huge male to ascertain whether he’ll let him, then he places his horse behind the leading cow. Lets out a resounding Yep, driving her in the direction to go by guiding his criollo. Rafael stays further back, making sure the others gradually begin to follow, hustling the stragglers, channeling the young cattle that try to escape from the side. Halley pivots on his haunches, leaps forward, stops short, avoids a head butt, and starts again, the opposite way; to feel him tensing between his knees, muscles taut and eye rolling into the white, the little brother can tell that the horse has been missing this activity, work is written in his genes, along with his agility and resistance to fatigue. Rafael himself rediscovers sensations he had already forgotten, deep in his saddle, as Halley carries him, his eyes are almost closed, and it’s as if he were flying, whirling, uncontrollably. When at last the herd begins to move in unison, the horse settles at the rear. From there he has a view of the entire group as well as the bull, walking apart, slightly to the rear, they have to let him go at his own pace not to get him rattled. The slightest quiver along a calf’s spine and Halley gallops over to check, make sure, reposition; Rafael hardly has to urge him forward. Steban joins him. They drive the cattle, silently, glad of the simplicity of the task. Until the older boy slaps his hand on his saddle and looks at the little brother.

  “This. I want a new one.”

  Rafael looks at his brother, astonished. Then glances at the horse, and it’s true, the old leather is so worn down in places that it’s battered, coming apart, full of stains and splits. Neither one of them remembers where it came from. All their gear was there, from before their birth, handed down from the grandfathers, or previous keepers, and the only thing they are sure of is that when they started learning their trade none of them ever sat their ass on anything new. There’s a sheen on that tack you’ll find nowhere else, grunts the mother with a shrug when they complain that a girth has snapped, and they spend hours taking the pieces of leather apart to sew them crudely back together, just enough to keep the saddle going for another year or two. And every year, every two years, it starts all over again. One day there’ll be an accident, and the mother won’t be able to say they didn’t warn her. But now . . .

  “Yes,” murmurs Rafael, “that’s a thought. I’d like a new one, too.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “We’ll go buy them at Antonio’s.”

  “Black.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Brown. For the . . . for the horse.”

  “Maybe. I’ll see.”

  They goad the herd, laughing suddenly, waving their arms in circles. They’ll change the bridles, too, while they’re at it, and the bits, the mouthpieces are rusty. Horses all dressed up in new clothes! The very thought seems impossible. And hats to go with it, if the criollos can strut around with their shiny saddles, their riders mustn’t spoil the picture. They can smell the well-oiled leather tingling their nostrils.

  From the middle of the herd a calf escapes, but they don’t notice. It is only when they hear a cow mooing that they realize, give a start, and rush off after it, laughing.

  “It’s mine!” shouts Steban.

  “I’ll get there before you!”

  “No. You, stay there!” and the older boy points at the herd, already worried about the fugitive, hesitant and lowing.

  The bull at the edge of the group has turned around and is breathing hard, sniffing the air. Rabioso—it’s not for nothing that the mother gave him that name, given all his fury and strength and irascible power, and Rafael knows he has to keep the group calm to mollify the male and stop him at all costs from scratching the ground with his forelegs and shaking his head in readiness to charge. So he brings Halley to a halt, grumbles, heads off in the opposite direction, shouting at the horse so he’ll gallop flat out. It’s not a long way, a hundred, two hundred yards, but they cover it in a roll of thunder. Vaguely alarmed, the cows watch him coming toward them, and he steers clear of the herd not to panic them, riding in an arc so he can go around behind them and drive forward again. At that moment it seems like they’ll never stop. The slightest error and they’ll crash together to the ground, Rafael and Halley—at that speed, at least one of them will be hurt, it happens all the time, broken legs, and
shattered horses that have to be shot. But this horse never stumbles or slips, he’s a monster, born in the steppe, he knows the treachery of stone, and on his back the little brother knows neither fear nor hesitation, not a single foot wrong, the chestnut flies across the expanse of plain. Eyes narrowed against the dust, Rafael slackens the reins, opens his arms. No one can see them, neither the horse with his neck low in a wild gallop nor the little brother with his hands reaching for the sky like a laughing madman, otherwise there would be shouts and prayers, which they would not hear, screams to try and bring them back, but they know none of it, they’re deaf and blind, captives of an immense joy that hurtles them forward, banishing reason and all the weight of the world.

  MAURO

  Two days later, Mauro pens the bull on its own. They’ve sorted the cows, on the one side those the male always covers, on the other, the ones he neglects, although a few of them continue to moo and come forward, looks like they’re still really horny, those she-devils. As if the bull were the only one who knew exactly which ones are pregnant and which ones are still barren, which ones he can service and which ones he can ignore, he’s got it all worked out. Mauro looks at the herd and does the math: if all goes well, next year there’ll be thirty or more little rabiosos. Which translates, a few seasons down the line, into food for two hundred and fifty meat-eaters for one year; or if they sell them earlier, enough to buy one hundred new sheep, or completely rebuild the second barn, which is about to collapse.

  Mauro closes the gate and in a rage hurls the stick he has been holding.

  There is a thousand times that amount in the bag the mother has hidden somewhere, perhaps even more.

  But the money has vanished, and the mother hasn’t mentioned it again. Two days he’s waited for this to change, for the old lady to get her wits about her. A dull anger has been building inside him, and it grows stronger as he thinks of Joaquin out there, Joaquin who got away from this godforsaken place, who with his meager salary lives so much better than he does, because he, Mauro, doesn’t even have the means to treat himself to a beer, not a beer nor anything else, not even the tools he and those other two morons have been asking for, the better to slave away at their daily chores.