‘I’m sick to death of you being all fucking superior … You’re scrawny as an orphanage rat,’ the lieutenant mocks the driver, who has lost more than thirty kilos in the past year. ‘You’re like a fucking mole — you have to snuffle your way around because you can’t see shit!’ The lieutenant picks up a gold and silver bangle: ‘Poor Cementeria … She left her bracelet here,’ he says, and the expression playing on his lips could either be a smile or a nervous tic.
Meanwhile, in the back of the former garbage truck, as they reassemble the board they are using as a table and re-hang the flashlights they are using as lamps from hooks in the tarpaulin, the six soldiers who hear only a remote echo of their bosses’ conversation are convinced that they are the subject of this distant discussion: the six men cannot imagine that their bosses are arguing while no one is watching.
‘I’d much rather be a fat pig than the way you’ve turned out … You’re a scrawny fucking beanpole,’ the lieutenant cackles and the driver’s smile drains from his face. ‘Your clothes are too big for you — and just look at the folds of skin you’re left with … You look like you’re fucking melting!’ the lieutenant mocks, because he wants to carry on laughing and because no one is listening: he would never say this if there were anyone else present.
‘You can talk … You’re a beached whale, a fucking elephant’s tampon … Shut your face and stop winding me up!’ The venom with which El Topo spits these last words startles his lieutenant and he bites his tongue, reluctant to carry on the banter — neither of them has ever used this tone before. Inside the cab, the tense minutes tick by, a remorseful silence that hangs in the air, like the vestige of a lover’s tiff.
The situation is precisely the reverse in the sierra, in the house that towers over El Teronaque, in the depths of the jungle, and in the orphanage at El Paraíso, where Estela, on one hand, Epitafio on another, the two boys who left their shack an hour since, and lastly Father Nicho are all unleashing a torrent of words: Estela wants to be safe when she reaches El Cañada and this is why she is still talking to El Chorrito; Epitafio wants to be behind the wheel of his truck and this is why he is screaming at the creatures transformed into shadows who have lost even their bodies such that if anyone should try to hug them they would find no purchase; the sons of the jungle want nothing more than to reach the cool waters of the forest pool of which they alone know the secret, which is why they are babbling to each other; and Father Nicho wants someone to tell him what is going on, and this is why he is wondering, Should I phone Sepelio now or should I call the other two morons?
The other two morons, weary of the silence to which neither is accustomed, loosen their tongues again and, in doing so, unawares, attempt to erase the conversation they were having only a moment earlier: and so the co-driver goes back to the moment before things swerved off course, the instant when they lost control of their words and their tempers: ‘He’s going to be calling us every five fucking minutes … He’s going to be busting our balls all day.’
Flicking on the headlights of the fake security van, El Topo turns to El Tampón and nods: ‘Yeah, I’m sure he’s going to be on our backs all day.’ Then, reaching out his left hand, he gestures to the pack of cigarettes wedged between the Smurf dressed up as Juan Diego and the bracelet that once belonged to Cementeria and says: ‘Pass me a cigarette,’ and as he does so he thinks to himself: Who would have thought it’d be so easy? … That it wouldn’t cost us anything to drive Cementeria insane … That she would end up copying Osamenta … That mad bitch Ausencia was right.
‘I don’t like it when they call us,’ El Tampón grumbles, passing the pack of cigarettes to El Topo.
‘Don’t answer, then … or turn off your phone. Let the old bastard go fuck himself,’ El Topo says, taking the cigarettes and, glancing at the gold bracelet, he thinks: Who would have thought that she loved Osamenta that much … that persevering with the lie would push her over the edge?
‘What happens if Sepelio calls?’ El Tampón asks, passing El Topo the old lighter lying on the dashboard.
‘Then just don’t call back,’ El Topo says, lighting a cigarette and thinking: It’s unbelievable that she acted on the lie I told her … It’s as if I said: Go over there and kill yourself.
‘Who are you saying I shouldn’t call?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t call. That’s what you said … What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I meant don’t answer,’ El Topo says, exhaling a plume of smoke.
‘You’ve got something on your mind … You’re not listening to me.’
‘I swear, I’ve got nothing else on my mind.’
‘Really?’ El Topo says, bringing a cigarette to his own lips. ‘That old fucker … I don’t like it when he phones.’
‘I think it’s the old man that you don’t like,’ El Topo says, handing back the lighter he has just been passed. ‘There’s only one person you like. Only one man who makes you happy.’
‘You’re always trying to confuse me … You were thinking about something else … But it doesn’t matter … I’m used to it,’ El Tampón says and rolls down his window. ‘It’s fucking freezing.’
‘Fuck’s sake. It’s not as if you’re not wearing enough layers,’ El Topo grunts, deciding to be aggressive, since he prefers it to the conversations about his constant distractions.
‘There you go again,’ El Tampón complains and, rolling up his window, adds, ‘Why don’t you close your window, too … and stop being such a bastard.’
‘I don’t want to stink of smoke,’ El Topo says and, surprised that El Tampón has not exploded, continues to taunt him. ‘If you knew it was going to be cold, you should have brought a jacket … or don’t they make them in your size?’
‘I’ll skin your mother and make a jacket out of her, arsehole.’
‘There we go …When you can’t think of something to say, you always … Hang on tight, I’ve just spotted another pothole.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Another jolt in the back,’ El Tampón says as the battered fake security van lands with a judder.
‘And that won’t be the last,’ El Topo roars, and, exploiting the fact that the pothole has calmed El Tampón’s anger, he goes back to the subject they already dropped on two separate occasions:
‘What does Sepelio have to say about the old man?’
‘What do you think he’d say? … He’s known the old man all his life … ever since he was taken to the orphanage … when they closed Lago Seco and couldn’t find anywhere else.’
‘…’
‘They sent Sepelio up into the mountains … That’s where he first met the old man … and Epitafio and Estela,’ El Tampón explains, stubbing out his cigarette and hugging himself. ‘It’s really fucking cold.’
‘Poor Estela,’ El Topo says, as he, too, stubs out his cigarette, hardly aware of the words that have just passed his lips.
‘What do you mean poor Estela? … She’s a miserable old bitch.’
‘I don’t think she’s a bitch … It’s not like she’s Cementeria, or even Osamenta.’
‘That’s … Don’t tell anyone … It’s none of your business,’ El Tampón warns, and then says, ‘Or maybe you have a thing for that slut, too?’
‘Why would you think I fancy her?’
‘We’re coming to the turn-off,’ El Tampón interrupts El Topo, and, forgetting the cold, rolls the window down further and leans out. ‘I can’t read the sign.’
‘What do you mean we’re coming to the turn-off?’
‘Pull up so I can get out and read the sign,’ El Tampón orders, leaning even further out.
‘Get back in, you moron … How many times do I have to tell you not to lean out the window?’ El Topo snarls. ‘And anyway, we’re not there yet.’
‘What do you mean we’re not there?
I can see the silos,’ El Tampón says as he slides back into the cab and points to the huge triangular shadows.
‘You talk such shit,’ El Topo splutters, shaking his head. ‘There are silos everywhere.’
Before El Tampón lets go the dashboard his hands grabbed on to a split second before they hit the pothole, the six squaddies in the back of the former garbage truck start to complain, and this time their rage is white-hot: one of them has split his skull and another has cut his chin. Enraged, the one whose chin is bleeding draws his gun, raises it, and without thinking, fires into the steel roof.
The former garbage truck skids several metres before El Topo regains control of the vehicle, and his pounding heart, then he slams on the brakes and it is this, this sudden screech to a halt, that sets off the ensuing chain of events: El Topo and El Tampón jump down from the cab, fuming with rage and rush around to the back of the fake security van, wrench open the doors and roar: ‘Which of you fucking morons?’ and drag the fucking moron out on to the road.
When they see that the moron’s chin is bleeding and hear him explain what happened, El Tampón and El Topo exchange a few words and then burst into a booming laugh: the rest of the men laugh with them, leaning out of the back doors of the truck. Finally, as the moron himself starts to laugh, a symphony of death rattles echoes across the desolate plain and stretches eastward to Lago Seco and those who govern the laws and the ministries.
Drawn by the dark and boundless emptiness, the men who deserted the Madre Buena plateau and deserted their posts stare out into the void, lost in this unfathomable plain. Then, as though they are all pulled by the timeless force and mysterious magnetism of the rocks, the lieutenant, the captain and the six soldiers turn towards the west and silently gaze at the vast, ghostly shadow formed by the sierra, which they will shortly reach.
‘Bastard fucking cold!’ Tampón says after a moment, his words like a falling curtain, which, when it rises again a moment later, reveals a completely different scene: the six soldiers are in the back of the van and El Topo and El Tampón are sitting in the cab of the former municipal garbage truck.
‘What were you saying?’ El Tampón asks as the fake security van begins to pick up speed.
‘That we’re still a long way from Tres Hermanos,’ El Topo says, switching the headlights on again and, staring at the twin holes they carve out of the darkness, adds, ‘I also said I don’t think Estela is a bitch’: Estela, the woman who is about to reach the roadblock at El Cañada.
Hesitating about whether or not to stop en route and to tell El Chorrito to continue on foot, Estela looks out at the rocks that mark their progress through the sierra and — since deep down she does not want to stop — wonders whether Epitafio has left El Teronaque. She does not know that the men loyal to the man she so adores are only now loading the crates that Señor Hoyo will be taking from El Teronaque.
‘Get those fucking crates loaded!’ Epitafio roars, and then, turning towards Sepelio, orders: ‘Load them up as well. Make sure their hands are tied!’ Surveying his men and signalling to the nameless who have come from other lands, Sepelio shouts: ‘You heard … Get this lot loaded up!’ Then, when all that remains is the echo of Sepelio’s voice, Epitafio and Mausoleo watch the ensuing scene without participating: the giant is thinking that he cannot dare ask what is in the crates, while, without quite knowing why, HewhosolovesEstela is thinking about the sons of the jungle.
Those two boys who, now standing beside the forest pool, toss their sacks on to the ground, the sacks filled to bursting with the objects lost in the clearing known as El Ojo de Hierba by those who have crossed so many borders — they quickly strip off their clothes, scrabble across the ten metres separating them from this place they have been longing to visit and dive into the water.
IV
‘Why does it look like there are more lights today?’
‘You’re right … There are more lights.’
‘Look how close the beams come,’ says the younger of the two boys, lifting one arm out of the forest pool.
‘And on the far side of the fence, they go farther, too,’ says the elder, swimming towards the centre of the pond.
‘I want to go with you,’ says the younger boy, swimming a couple of strokes. ‘I want to go to the other side, too.’
‘Someone has to wait here,’ says the elder, floating on his back, ‘to look after all the stuff we’ve brought.’
‘Maybe you could stay behind one day,’ says the younger, resting his arms on the older boy’s stomach. ‘Maybe I could go there on my own.’
‘How could you go on your own?’ says the older boy, allowing himself to sink again. ‘You don’t know anyone there … You don’t know even know the way through the fence.’
‘You didn’t know anyone when you first went.’
‘But I know them now,’ says the older boy and, cupping his hands like a shovel, sends off a wave of water splashing over the younger boy.
‘I’m serious,’ says the younger boy, wiping his face. ‘If you won’t let me go on my own, at least we can go together some day.’
‘And what would we do with all the stuff?’
‘We’ll do it some day when we’re done working … when we’ve sold everything.’
‘We can’t leave it that late … You know that as well as I do.’
‘No, but really, take me with you … I don’t care if it’s dangerous later,’ the younger boy begs, his hands skimming the surface of the water.
‘Okay, maybe we could go in a while,’ the older boy suggests unexpectedly.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘We’d have to finish here early,’ the older boy nods towards the village twinkling in the distance, then turns and swims back to the bank.
‘I swear, we won’t have anything left,’ says his brother, looking at the village that those on this side of the great wall have named Tonée, though its inhabitants, on the far side of the wall, know it as Oluée. ‘I’ll sell things really fast.’
‘Well then, don’t hang around in the pool. We need to hurry.’
‘If you’d told me that I could go with you today, I’d be out already,’ says the younger boy, swimming towards the bank. ‘But you didn’t say anything.’
‘It only just occurred to me … I know someone this side of the wall who can help us sell this,’ the older boy says, climbing out of the pool and unfastening the medal that hangs around his neck. ‘He’ll know how much it’s worth.’
‘Are we really going to sell the medal?’
‘I thought you wanted to go to the other side?’ the older boy says, smiling, as he picks up his shirt, then he adds: ‘This way you’ll be able to go to the other side, all thanks to your medal … What else can you do with it?’
When the sons of the jungle have gathered up their belongings and the bundles containing the things lost in the clearing in El Tiradero by those who no longer know whether their hearts still beat in their chests, the elder sets off walking and reaches the path that leads to the river: the river that winds through the jungle all the way to the village.
Before he too sets his legs in motion, the younger boy looks up, he sees the treetops of the kapoks and the chujumes, hears the calls of the howler monkeys, though he is not really listening: for a couple of seconds he is lost in a dream of this place that he does not really know, this land that extends beyond the great wall. Another cry jolts him from his dream and drags him towards the path where his older brother is impatient: ‘Don’t just stand there!’
‘If we don’t get there soon, there won’t be anyone to sell anything to … We’ll end up stuck with all this stuff,’ the elder of the two boys shouts, looking over his shoulder through the shadows and the liana of the jungle as the young boy finally quickens his pace, thinking: What excuse can I come up with so he can’t come with me? Next to him, on the banks of the river, amphibians
croak, drowning out the murmur of the forest.
Why put both of us in danger? the older boy thinks silently, then, stopping for a second, he shouts: ‘Seriously, shift your arse if you want to make it in time!’ The younger boy shouts: ‘I’m coming!’ all the while still imagining this place that he does not know. At this point, the younger of the boys feels his heart pounding in his chest as hard as it did when Epitafio whistled to them back at the clearing known as El Ojo de Hierba and he emerged from the mass of migrants they had been duping all along.
Even those fuck hijos de puta know both sides of the wall, thinks the younger boy, and, seeing the one who, of the two of them, serves as leader, he thinks, I’m the only bastard who hasn’t visited both sides. His chest throbs with rage, while, without knowing how it is happening, his mind is filled with the faces of the men and women they sold to HewhosolovesEstela: the faces of the nameless right now being caged inside the huge truck back in El Teronaque. El Teronaque, where Epitafio and his men and are still racing to finish their work and the soulless are still singing their fears:
We were forced back into the truck … We were bound again … tossed on to the floor as they screamed at us, as they beat us … The fear returned … but now it was a different fear … We no longer had the strength to tremble … We did not have the strength to feel … There was no reason now to think, to speak, no reason left to weep.
‘Don’t just stand there. Go on, get over,’ Epitafio says to Mausoleo. ‘You’re coming with us … Just make sure that he doesn’t do anything when you’re not watching,’ HewhosolovesEstela adds, gesturing towards Sepelio with one hand and prodding the giant, who has come back to the courtyard, drawn by the dead. Cloaked by the shadows and the darkness, the ten cats who live here wait for Epitafio and Mausoleo to leave, and still they baulk at approaching the corpses.
Among the Lost Page 11
