The Adventures of China Iron

by Gabriela Cabezón Cámara

  Hernández carried on with his monologue about the port, taxes, theft, and ‘us’ – by which he meant ranch owners and gauchos all lumped together because they shared the same soil and the same pressure from Buenos Aires and the war against the Indians. ‘We can’t be us without others’, he said at one point, and I was tempted to get my notebook out and jot it down. The Colonel was no fool; I felt I was learning like I had in the wagon with Liz, as though bandages were being lifted from my eyes. I felt I had as many layers over my eyes as an Egyptian mummy, those bodies wrapped in strips of cloth and laid in pyramids, gigantic tombs made thousands of years ago in the sands of the north of Africa, that continent of giraffes and elephants. I was also itching to whack him on the head with a stick and run away somewhere, anywhere. I recognised the lines of poetry; it was my husband who’d written them and if they were his property, then Hernández had also stolen from me. And from my children. That morning, sitting beside the landowner, although I was dressed as Liz’s brother Joseph Scott, I was actually a wife who’d been cheated; I realised the Colonel had robbed me of something that was mine and should rightfully belong to my children. For the first time in my life I felt that I was the owner of something; on the estancia I could see how nice it was to own things, and I felt indignant. I decided then and there that I wouldn’t leave the fort empty-handed: justice would be done. And also knowing that Fierro was near, that I was following his path, made me worry about coming across him and being sent back to where I’d come from, back beside him in our shack. Surely it wouldn’t come to that? The brute had run away, he was a deserter now, he couldn’t come back to the estancia, but what if he tried to drag me away? Hearing his name had made me determined to keep dressing as a man and never let my shotgun out of my sight. Suddenly it all became clear to me: the books containing Fierro’s poetry were selling like hot cakes, and it was my money, but there was no way I was going back to our old shack. And certainly not with Fierro. The old Colonel was still going on about port tariffs and the common good and the great dilemma facing Argentina. How can a country grow if those who make it prosper are robbed and penalised? Hernández went on. I found my own thoughts wandering back and forth. Who makes Argentina grow? I wondered. What are taxes and what’s the point of them? The old man still hadn’t shut up; he went back to the subject of Fierro, recounting that they called him the Cock for a time until (and Hernández chuckled at this point) they discovered his vices and had to change his nickname pronto. Liz, do you know what they started calling him? Excuse me for saying it, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s the truth and no amount of pussyfooting around will change it. The truth is neither pretty nor ugly, good or bad, fat or thin, federal or unitarian, country or city: it’s just the truth, wouldn’t you agree? Well, so, the truth is that the Cock turned out to be more of a Hen and that’s what they started calling him round here. Not because he was a coward, he always had his knife at the ready, if he could, the gaucho singer would have spent his whole time fighting people, but because he was a, how should I put it, the word here is bufarrón, would it be poof in English? He was spotted canoodling with another gaucho. I had both of them staked out in Campo Malo but I wasn’t born yesterday: no amount of staking out will straighten something so bent.

  Liz and the Colonel had me totally in their sway: first I had to breathe to the rhythm of her passion, as she alternately filled and emptied my mouth in her undulating dance. Then, depending on what Hernández was saying, I was either heading back to the old shack or towards a bag of money. I wasn’t sure if what the Colonel said was true, I’d had Fierro on top of me enough times to know that he wasn’t as bent as all that. When you stopped to think, he’d had it off with me and, only a matter of hours ago, I’d been under a cunt that, if it felt so inclined, could have suffocated me. These new inclinations that the father of my children and I had each developed put a huge distance between myself and the shack. I must have breathed a big sigh of relief because Hernández looked at me and laughed. Don’t worry, my boy, it’s not catching, you’ll soon see a bit more of the world and nothing people do in bed will surprise you. Excuse me Madam for putting it so bluntly, you’re a married woman, you’re not easily shocked, are you? Liz blushed and the Colonel, who was adding neat caña to the mate the chinas had brought him, started apologising; but before he could finish, Liz stormed out. He remained silent for a while, sucking at his mate, with a vacant expression. Just look at her, my little gringo friend. Sorry, I know she’s your sister, but she goes around showing me her udders all day long and then runs off blushing at the slightest bit of fun! Women are like horses, my lad: you have to whip them till they realise they like being dominated, do you see? You’ll soon get the hang of it. You can start right here if you haven’t already, I’ve got a few little chinas who are as tasty as a freshly baked bun, young things. I don’t break them all in, just a few; I’m getting on a bit now and have to be a bit more picky about which ones I go for. He went on in this vein for hours without my having to say anything except to mutter in agreement from time to time, just to reassure him that he wasn’t talking to himself.

  Punch and Whisky

  Offended, or feigning offence, I wasn’t quite sure which, Liz gave the Colonel a wide berth all day, leaving him shipwrecked in his sea of drink, while he stammered out apologies. I beg your pardon, lo siento mucho, my dear, one does become rather rough and ready living amongst these brutes, there’s no getting away from it, he apologised, every time he saw her going past with one of his officers, who in turn tried to keep away from her for fear of the punishment they’d receive if the Colonel felt slighted. It was like that the whole day: her running away from him, them avoiding her, and me watching it all without really understanding, stuck there beside the old man, who grabbed my arm every time I made as if to leave. At some point Liz relented. I don’t know whether she felt sorry for me or for him, but we were both relieved. She came over to us and said to the old man that she was arranging a surprise for him with the officers. What did you say? he almost shouted. An English dinner, you will love it. Whatever it is, I will love it as long as you are here, he responded gallantly, trying to get up and bow to her, but instead he fell headlong onto the ground, like a duck diving into water when it spots a fish. Oh, Colonel, caña is a terribly cheap drink, let me help you up. Yes, you’re right. By all means, do help me up, he said while a couple of gauchos were already carrying him into the house. Water and a lie-down, Liz ordered the chinas, who ran to his room ahead of the Colonel, who by then had passed out and was being carried over the shoulder of one of his men.

  Liz took charge of the kitchen: there she was, with that radiance of hers, that ghostly whiteness and the red of coloured maize, and she was so indifferent towards me that I clung to her side, trying to overcome the need to bury myself in her skin, to remain on the warm island of her voice. But I couldn’t. We were leaving soon, and she told me to discreetly get our things prepared, as she brought a barrel of whisky and jars of curry in from the wagon. So I got ready, together with Rosa and Estreya, who was following us everywhere fearfully; he’d been forced to sleep outdoors with the other dogs and had been nipped a fair few times, poor thing. The Colonel had a specific place for everyone and there was no way a dog would be allowed inside his house. When I’d finished my tasks and while the Colonel was otherwise engaged I let Estreya into the kitchen, and made a fuss of him while he whimpered, as if talking to me and telling me all the awful things that had happened. I calmed him down, stroking him and feeding him scraps of meat. I promised I’d never let anything like that happen to him again, that from now on he’d always sleep with me. Right then and there he went to sleep, lying on his back, surrendering his exposed neck to me, trusting me, and Liz looked fondly at us for a while before getting me to help again. I had to peel and chop oranges and lemons, the only fruit that they had there at Las Hortensias, until my arms were nearly dropping off. She was making punch: they had brought her the huge army pots and pans, so big you could have boi
led a man alive standing up in each of them. Caña and fruit, four pots for the gauchos, two others with whisky and fruit, and a lamb curry with carrot and squash for the officers, that was what Liz had made. She was sure she’d be able to persuade the Colonel to let the workers have a drink too.

  And so she did. She put on a blue dress and let her hair down: she was a vision. The old man must have thought so too when she went to his room to ply him with coffee, water and whisky. She made him drink the jug of freshly drawn water, gave him his coffee, chatted inconsequentially and made him promise he’d never drink caña again. He swore he never would, doubtless tickled that she should care about his state of health. Finally she gave him a glass of her good Scotch whisky and the Colonel was himself once more, feeling forgiven in exchange for allowing everyone to come to the party. She emerged looking radiant and ordered the servants to lay the table with a cloth and candles, crystal glasses in the dining room and the kitchen, and then the gauchos struck up their guitars: Fierro wasn’t the only one with a ditty to sing. The workers spruced themselves up as if they were going to a palace; they’d never drunk from Bohemian crystal glasses before, they’d never tasted punch, they washed, brushed and shaved themselves, plaited their hair and shined their shoes until they looked more like English boots than gaucho boots with hooves for heels. The soldiers smoothed down their uniforms and pinned on their medals, wearing cologne and sporting burnished swords. It was like Christmas at the estancia when the owners are in residence, there was a party atmosphere, that feeling of happiness that times of plenty bring to almost everyone, especially to those for whom it’s rare. Ten whole calves were splayed over the gauchos’ fire, the curry for the officers was beginning to give off a good smell, and the gauchos and their chinas set to dancing as soon as the punch was served; they called Liz’s drink puncho, on the basis that every gaucho needs his poncho, so every gaucho should partake of the puncho. They enjoyed it so much that they wouldn’t let go of their glasses until well into the morning.

  Liz had a very simple plan, but she hadn’t told me it beforehand because she was convinced that I was hopeless at keeping a secret: the three of us were going to leave as we had arrived, but we were not going to leave on our own. We were going to take the gauchos who were most skilled at tracking with us, and those who knew the meaning of hard work. To set up our estancia we would need blacksmiths, flower-growers, people who knew how to distil whisky and how to build a stone house, how to get cows to yield their best milk and how to coax strawberries to grow, even in the desert. Rosa had sized the gauchos up and Liz had inspected their work. When we arrived there were three of us and we were going to leave with twenty more, the workers would go first and we’d follow on behind. Justice would be done. I found out the whole plan that afternoon, before the party began, and it made me so happy that I was just as merry as the rest of them, who were gradually losing themselves in a state of total drunkenness. The workers stamped their feet, and it was quite a sight, their gaucho boots raised a cloud of dust which the girls with their skirts whirled around like a hurricane. Even the children danced, the kitchen became a dance floor and gradually officers began migrating from the Colonel’s room, likely bored of endless sermons on industry by the high priest of civilisation, and began mingling with the gauchos. The social boundaries between educated people and peasants, uniformed men and chinas, workers and soldiers gradually dissolved with every passing glass. Rosa wandered around outside the house, wetting the whistle of those standing guard, just a drop to let you see how good the punch is, and there the soldiers were, dropping from the watchtowers like ripe fruit from trees.

  They’d begun drinking the punch at sundown. By midnight the whole house was jumping in a cloud of dust kicked up by the dancers. A few hours before sunrise, the cloud was still there: but now it was raised by the furious fornicating of chinas, gauchos and soldiers. I recall seeing a china with one gaucho in front kissing her and putting his hand up her skirt and a soldier groping her tits from behind while she had her hands full, a stiff cock in each, meanwhile, watching them, was a bandy-legged gaucho pleasuring himself, a china rubbing her tits against his back, and a swarthy, stumpy little man was resting his prick on the china’s thighs while another woman was sucking his balls while another man was sucking her cunt while another woman was licking her tits while all of them carried on downing the punch and groaning, coming all over each other, like candles melting away together, until it was almost impossible to tell who was doing what with whom. They were one big writhing mass, smothered in their own stew of spunk and china juice and, before long, copious quantities of vomit; they all ended up passing out around dawn, floating in a lake surrounded by the bits of beef and oranges they’d previously eaten. Only Liz and Hernández were left in the dining room, him spread-eagled on the floor and her rearranging her dress. The end of the orgy was revolting, but we had to lie on the floor as well and get spattered with the landowner’s vomit. Our twenty gauchos had left hours earlier, each riding one of Hernández’s finest horses and carrying the few coins they’d managed to scrape together from their long overdue wages.

  You Fucking Whore!

  The scene gradually dissolved as, one by one, soldiers, workers and the Colonel began waking up. They slowly emerged from their colossal hangover, breaking the spell that had brought them together hours before. A few slipped and fell, and had to get up again. They clutched their heads, groaning; Hernández barely opened one eye before returning to the ashen grey faint in which he lay. Liz brought him water and dabbed at his face, Oh, Colonel, what a party we had! Come on, let’s go to your room, you need to sleep in a bed, come on, come along Colonel, I’ll look after you.

  You fucking whore! You damn china! Shouts began to be heard, as the first few men surfaced and began to see who their wives had passed out with, on, beneath or beside. The men shouted more than the chinas did, but there was also the odd cry of shut up you faggot! I saw what you were up to last night. Or, fucking bitch, you stole my man! There were so many broken couples that day at Las Hortensias, so many little children crying to be fed because no one made any breakfast, so many dogs cowering with their tails between their legs. Then came the fisticuffs and ranting, men settled ownership of the women with knives and blows and the chinas fought over their men using their bare hands, and everyone shouted at the top of their voices. Another battle commenced: another chaos of bodies. Several pints of blood, five severed fingers and three bodies stabbed to death all fell to the filthy floor. It stopped there because one of the officers managed to drag himself to the gun room and fire a shot into the air. After the bang, a sad silence descended on the estancia. Nobody could do anything except vomit, ask each other for forgiveness, and cry the day away. Liz, Rosa and I did the same, although knowing we were going to leave the next day cheered us up. We were fed up with so much pretence, having so many people around, we wanted to get back to the little world of our wagon, to the vast limpid pampas, to our cows and the creatures who crawled out of the earth at night. I also felt a curious new happiness in my body: I had kissed a few girls and the gaucho they’d called a faggot. I was definitely getting a taste for them, kisses from girls and gay gauchos. I took it all in my stride. Liz was there and I wanted to spend my whole life with her, and at that point I couldn’t imagine having love and freedom at the same time. But my body felt happy, something in me was giving way and it was like diving into the river on one of those hot summer days that in the pampas are so hot the air boils: it’s not just a figure of speech, the scorching air quivers in the sun, distorting how you see things.