The Clouds
Page 17
At daybreak, the fire reached us. Protected by water, its age-old nemesis, we saw it stop and dance at the lakeshore. The front of the blaze stretched endlessly from east to west. The crackling flames were deafening, and greedy birds hurled themselves into clouds of smoke to eat the charred insects, excited by heat, danger, fire, and perhaps the abundance of food, letting out dreadful cries, unnatural in a bird, blackened by the night but suddenly illuminated by the flames’ glow, seemingly and suddenly risen from another world, another time, another nature with different laws than our own. The blaze lit up the entire countryside, which took on the excessive brightness of a rather flashy party, and the flames doubled when reflected in the lake, whose waters had turned an undulating orange color, so we who were within it, up to our necks in that reddened and flaming element, had the impression of being trapped in the very heart of the inferno, especially because, perhaps owing to the overheated earth and endless expanse of flames, our skin could detect the rise in water temperature to the point that we began to wonder—to ourselves, of course, for apart from the Verde brothers, who were impossible to silence, nobody spoke—whether it might begin to boil at any moment. The smoke, which at a distance appeared firm and sturdy as a wall, was a wildly writhing, turbulent fluid up close, and between its thick and agitated masses, changing color at every turn, furious columns of sparks and igneous material would rise up all at once to explode mid-air and split off in all directions like projectiles, flying and crackling over our heads or speeding past us, or into the water where they were extinguished and suddenly turned to tiny black bits that floated on the surface, or else, flying over the whole width of the lake, fell on the other side beyond the bank, where a number of little scattered fires had started to burn. Verdecito clasped at my neck and whispered incomprehensible phrases in my ear, one after another, but his older brother had stopped, fallen silent, and remained rigid and pale with terror, with the water up to his neck but his back to the flames, so as not to look at them.
It was difficult to estimate the width of that wall of fire; what is known is that the blaze hugged the shore of the lake and extended northward, so at a given point the lake’s oval surface, with us inside it, the horses that a group of soldiers were trying at great pains to hold back (and only succeeding because they had hobbled and bound them), the dogs that had barked themselves weary, the wild animals that would not leave the water for anything in the world, and the birds flitting in the ruddy air, that watery mirror we had seen so placid and smooth at dusk, seemed an oval nightmare painted by a demented artist and framed in fire.
After a while, we realized daybreak had come but that the smoke was hiding the sunlight. And not only the smoke—as punctually as Osuna had announced, the Santa Rosa storms arrived from the southeast: It was the morning of the thirtieth. The fire passed by, continuing northward, and when the smoke began to clear, we saw the sky spotted with a few thick, blue-gray clouds. All around us, the blackened countryside was scattered with small, ruddy embers, like a night sky riddled with stars. From the ground, black as carbon, numerous little wisps of light and exhausted smoke sprouted, becoming invisible a meter up. We had not lost a single man, a single animal, a single cart. But although the fire had granted us a new term, now on its mindless northward way, we could not leave the water because the earth was still burning like the floor of a brick oven. The Basque climbed up on his cart, disappeared inside on all fours, and came back out with three bottles of gin, which he tossed in the air; the nimble soldiers, lively despite fatigue and the scorching heat, caught them. The bottles passed from hand to hand, and in no time their spirits were revived. Saved from the fire for unknowable reasons, they already had little to lose. By consuming us, the flames would have consumed our delirium as well, which was the only thing truly our own that distinguished us from the flat and silent land. And since the indifferent flames, almost scornful, had passed over without even stopping to destroy us, our delirium, intact, could begin to forge the world in its image again.
Heavy rain fell all day, pierced by fearsome lightning that was a new source of terror for us, and not only put out the embers and cooled the earth, but even restored the winter we had lost in the middle of our journey, having been upset by that improper summer’s disruption of the natural order of the seasons. Now, with winter back in its place, we could wait for spring. For two or three days we traveled slowly across a dead, black, ashen land, which an icy drizzle soaked and turned to a runny mixture of carbonized grass, mud, and ash. The sky was just as black as the earth and the water fell unceasingly, gray and glacial. We rode, weary, focused, numb, and clumsy, a little unreal, having almost forgotten, after so many ordeals, the reason for our journey. But on the fourth day, the burnt countryside was left behind, and in the direction we traveled, always southeast, a few glimpses of tender green could be discerned among the dead grass of winter’s end. On the fifth, the sun returned in a blue sky with not a cloud to be seen, and in the bright, rain-washed breeze, we encountered a few cowherds, and in the afternoon we just made out the first farmhouses. People greeted us as we passed and stayed to watch because of our strange appearance—since, dirty and blackened by sun and by fire, smoke, and ash, dead-tired and wretched, we seemed neither bitter nor resigned. In the courtyards, peach trees, with their usual impatience, were full of pink flowers. I wished a little more for myself than at the start of the journey, and the world, contrary to all reason, seemed kind that day. The next morning, some five hundred meters from the river, above the ravine, we caught sight of a long, white building and, at its base, three tall acacia trees. As in the fourth Bucolic, the Fates, at last, decreed it.
Juan José Saer was the leading Argentinian writer of the post-Borges generation. The author of numerous novels and short-story collections (including Scars and La Grande), Saer was awarded Spain’s prestigious Nadal Prize in 1987 for The Event. Five of his works are available from Open Letter.
Hilary Vaughn Dobel has an MFA in poetry and translation from Columbia University. She is the author of two manuscripts and, in addition to Juan José Saer, has translated work by Carlos Pintado.
Inga Ābele (Latvia)
High Tide
Naja Marie Aidt (Denmark)
Rock, Paper, Scissors
Esther Allen et al. (ed.) (World)
The Man Between: Michael Henry Heim & a Life in Translation
Svetislav Basara (Serbia)
The Cyclist Conspiracy
Sergio Chejfec (Argentina)
The Dark
My Two Worlds
The Planets
Eduardo Chirinos (Peru)
The Smoke of Distant Fires
Marguerite Duras (France)
Abahn Sabana David
L’Amour
The Sailor from Gibraltar
Mathias Énard (France)
Street of Thieves
Zone
Macedonio Fernández (Argentina)
The Museum of Eterna’s Novel
Rubem Fonseca (Brazil)
The Taker & Other Stories
Juan Gelman (Argentina)
Dark Times Filled with Light
Georgi Gospodinov (Bulgaria)
The Physics of Sorrow
Arnon Grunberg (Netherlands)
Tirza
Hubert Haddad (France)
Rochester Knockings: A Novel of the Fox Sisters
Gail Hareven (Israel)
Lies, First Person
Angel Igov (Bulgaria)
A Short Tale of Shame
Ilya Ilf & Evgeny Petrov (Russia)
The Golden Calf
Zachary Karabashliev (Bulgaria)
18% Gray
Jan Kjærstad (Norway)
The Conqueror
The Discoverer
Josefine Klougart (Denmark)
One of Us Is Sleeping
Carlos Labbé (Chile)
Loquela
Navidad & Matanza
Jakov Lind (Austria)
Ergo
Landscape in Concrete
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Klausen
Lucio Mariani (Italy)
Traces of Time
Amanda Michalopoulou (Greece)
Why I Killed My Best Friend
Valerie Miles (World)
A Thousand Forests in One Acorn: An Anthology of Spanish-Language Fiction
Quim Monzó (Catalonia)
Gasoline
Guadalajara
A Thousand Morons
Elsa Morante (Italy)
Aracoeli
Giulio Mozzi (Italy)
This Is the Garden
Andrés Neuman (Spain)
The Things We Don’t Do
Henrik Nordbrandt (Denmark)
When We Leave Each Other
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The Ambassador
The Pets
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Children in Reindeer Woods
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The Future Is Not Ours
Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer (Netherlands)
Rupert: A Confession
Jerzy Pilch (Poland)
The Mighty Angel
My First Suicide
A Thousand Peaceful Cities
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Death in Spring
The Selected Stories of Mercè Rodoreda
War, So Much War
Milen Ruskov (Bulgaria)
Thrown into Nature
Guillermo Saccomanno (Argentina)
Gesell Dome
Juan José Saer (Argentina)
The Clouds
La Grande
The One Before
Scars
The Sixty-Five Years of Washington
Olga Sedakova (Russia)
In Praise of Poetry
Mikhail Shishkin (Russia)
Maidenhair
Sölvi Björn Sigurðsson (Iceland)
The Last Days of My Mother
Andrzej Sosnowski (Poland)
Lodgings
Albena Stambolova (Bulgaria)
Everything Happens as It Does
Benjamin Stein (Germany)
The Canvas
Georgi Tenev (Bulgaria)
Party Headquarters
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Europe in Sepia
Karaoke Culture
Nobody’s Home
Ludvík Vaculík (Czech Republic)
The Guinea Pigs
Jorge Volpi (Mexico)
Season of Ash
Antoine Volodine (France)
Bardo or Not Bardo
Post-Exoticism in Ten Lessons, Lesson Eleven
Eliot Weinberger (ed.) (World)
Elsewhere
Ingrid Winterbach (South Africa)
The Book of Happenstance
The Elusive Moth
To Hell with Cronjé
Ror Wolf (Germany)
Two or Three Years Later
Words Without Borders (ed.) (World)
The Wall in My Head
Can Xue (China)
Vertical Motion
Alejandro Zambra (Chile)
The Private Lives of Trees
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