VIII
‘How much for the trainers?’
‘Twenty.’
‘But they’re falling apart.’
‘Twenty,’ repeats the elder of the two boys, gnawing on a chicken wing.
‘The soles have come unstuck,’ protests the young man who some hours ago dared to cross the wall that looms in the distance.
‘I’ll let you have them for fifteen,’ says the elder boy, tossing the wing he has been eating on the ground.
‘Thirteen,’ the young man offers, watching the bone skitter across the flagstones.
‘Put them back and stop fucking me around,’ says the elder boy, pointing at the ground and, seeing the pigeons peck at the wing he has just discarded, he adds: ‘But you’re not going to get anywhere with the ones you’re wearing.’
‘OK, then … fourteen, and you tell me how to get where I’m going,’ says the young man who has been walking now for several days. ‘How to get through the jungle.’
‘Fifteen, and we’ll talk about the rest later.’
‘What do you mean, later?’
‘Later is later.’
‘I’ll take them,’ says the young man who still bears a name and, gesturing to the younger boy, says: ‘That kid there said I should talk to you, but he didn’t say anything about later.’
‘That kid there is a fuckwit,’ says the elder boy, nodding towards his lieutenant, who is haggling over the price of a pair of trousers with a father and his child.
‘He said eight thousand for the trip.’
‘Like I told you, later … and not here!’
‘Later where?’
‘It’s fifty for the trainers and a meeting with us in two hours in the courtyard,’ announces the elder brother, nodding towards the church at the far side of the square.
‘In the church?’ says Hewhostillbearsaname, surprised.
‘Exactly,’ says the elder boy, pocketing the money and turning away.
‘What about my change?’
‘I’ll give it to you in the churchyard later if I feel like it,’ says the elder, walking back to the flowerbed next to which they have laid out their wares.
Slumping onto the flowerbed, the boy who assumes the role of leader watches abstractedly — so many things on the square that vie for his attention — as the younger of the sons of the jungle takes money from the father for the pair of trousers he has just bought his little girl: How am I going to tell him … to explain that we’re not going to cross to the other side … that he won’t be coming with me this time?
Looking away from the boy who is obliged to obey him, who, having taken money has also turned and is now walking towards the flowerbed, the elder boy allows his gaze to wander over the square: I’m sure he thinks that this time he’s definitely coming with me, he thinks, admiring the balustrades of the kiosk, the streetlights eaten away by rust, a flowering jacaranda, the trunks of several flame trees, the comings and goings of those who call this place Tonée, and those who know it as Oluée, and the fitful roaming of a starving dog.
But before his younger brother can reach him and distract the boy from the bustle on the square, a cart emerges selling ice cream, the father who bought the trousers hurries off, and a pregnant woman approaches their stall, the night on her face darker than it is on the square. Her sudden appearance interrupts the younger of the two boys; meanwhile, the elder takes a deep breath: What story can I come up with so that he does not throw another tantrum?
I could tell him: I miscalculated the time, thinks the elder boy. Getting to his feet and turning to face the woman with whom his younger brother is bargaining, he feels his stomach suddenly spasm: he has seen this darkened face before. Shaking his head, the elder of the two boys clutches his belly, takes another breath, recovers his composure and thinks to himself: I’m being stupid … Where could I possibly have seen her? At that moment, several dogs begin to bark somewhere on the square, and their growls and snarls are followed by the sound of one of them whimpering.
There’s no reason for me to know her … She probably looks like someone else, whispers the elder boy, who, having glanced at the dogs, now returns to his post, conducts a rapid inventory of the remaining objects, then stretches himself, yawning, and allows his eyes to roam the square: in the distance he can see the looming wall he has crossed so many times: It doesn’t matter what I tell him … he’s bound to kick up a fuss!
I should never have promised I would let him come to the other side today, thinks the elder boy. Then, looking out of the corner of his eye at his younger brother talking to the woman, he clutches his stomach again: Although, maybe if we hurry … maybe if we can sell the rest of this, I can keep my promise. That’s what I’ll do … We have to work fast, thinks the boy who acts as leader, and, addressing the men and women newly arrived from other lands who are crisscrossing the square, he shouts: Half price … all remaining stock left is half price!
Surprised, the younger boy and the woman with the tenebrous face, who has only just noticed the presence of the elder boy, turn to look at him for a moment. What the hell is going on now? thinks the younger of the two boys, while the pregnant woman is thinking: That evil bastard … Can it really be the same boy? But their thoughts are interrupted by the sound of bells that have begun to toll in the distance.
Turning away, visibly distressed, the woman with the darkened face rushes off and disappears among the men and women who have crossed the border, who, as soon as they heard the elder boy’s cry, crowded around the stall. As he stows the money given him by the pregnant woman and dismisses her from his mind, the younger boy reasons: He wants to work fast to make sure we’ve got enough time.
He wants to work fast so he can take me to the other side, the younger of the two boys thinks and, just as the church bells fall silent, the dogs begin to howl again, a flock of pigeons who have been hiding between the legs of those who have come from other lands takes to the wing, and the other merchants begin to sell off what remains of their stock.
Beneath the soundless sky of Tonée, tinted orange by the streetlights of the town square, pigeons wheel, tracing a wide circle of shadows. After a brief moment gazing up in awe at the circling birds, those selling and those buying hasten to conclude their transactions: so much so that by the time the pigeons come to earth again, the bustling is over. Those present know that the time to leave is approaching, and with it the time to find out how to leave.
As he puts away the money for the last shirt that he sold, the boy who serves as assistant turns to the boy who serves as leader and watches him sell a flashlight they found the other day in El Tiradero. From somewhere on the square comes the barking and growling of the dogs, and this time it is the younger boy who looks around to see if he can see them, but all he can see are the merchants hurrying to pack away their stalls.
For his part, having sold the flashlight and put the money in a safe place, the elder of the two boys watches a pigeon hurriedly limping after a female, and not knowing why he is doing it, or knowing that the younger boy is watching him again, he clicks his tongue, looks up, sees the other hawkers packing up and thinks of the woman with the darkened face: Could it have been her? … Could it really have been her?
In the meantime, the pregnant woman, now two blocks from the square, stops for an instant and, in that instant, without a second thought, she abandons all the plans that she had made. She pictures the face of the elder of the two boys, chokes back what little courage is left within her body, mentally draws up a new plan and, to the wailing of a pair of sirens, persuades herself that this is what she always intended.
Still mentally redrawing her plans, the pregnant woman starts walking again and, bumping into an old man who has just stepped on to the pavement, apologises and disappears into the tide of people streaming away from the square. And this old man, who is still staring after the woman who bumped into him as he sees
the two patrol cars arriving, will be the last to buy something on the square.
Two minutes earlier, the old man who is now pressed against the wall of a pharmacy watching the two patrol cars pass, bought the threadbare shirt now thrown over his shoulder from the younger of the two boys. And it was also two minutes ago, after taking the money for the shirt now disappearing through the crowd on the shoulder of the old man, that the younger boy began to feel the same disappointment he has felt so many times before: Why am I getting my hopes up? … He’s bound to make some excuse again and say we don’t have time.
Today will be just like every other day … I won’t get to go to the other side, thinks the younger boy and, shaking his head, he stares at the empty square before him, where there remain a handful of dogs, several hundred pigeons, one or two lost migrants and increasing numbers of police officers. Returning his attention to the boy who serves as leader, who is gathering up the sacks and blankets, the boy who serves as his lieutenant walks over to him and says: ‘Go on, then … say it! We don’t have time to go today!’
‘I swear, I really wanted to take you today,’ the leader says, looking into the eyes of the boy who must obey him: this time, however, the elder boy cannot hold the younger’s stare and looks down. Then, turning his head, the elder of the boys scans the square again and sees that there are only policemen left on the cobbled plaza.
Clicking his tongue, the leader swallows his embarrassment and, since all he wants now is to be on his way, swears: ‘I promise I’ll take you next time … We’ll stay the night, and you’ll see, we’ll go across together.’ Then, before the younger boy can utter a word, he nods to two policemen, picks up his bundle and sets off down the street: officers are still streaming into the square.
You really think I believe you? says the young boy, setting off after him, while the elder boy ignores him and watches as the police manifest their presence. This is the first time that they have been the last to leave the square, where heavy metal shutters are now coming down in a roar of engines as vans pull away.
‘Next time, I swear … We’ll stay overnight and go across together … Besides, we have to take your medal over there,’ the elder boy says. ‘We told Epitafio we’d see him on Wednesday … so we’ll have plenty of time to stay longer.’ As he crosses a second junction, the elder boy catches sight of the clock on the Tonée government building and says: ‘See, I wasn’t lying … Look how late it is … We can’t rest here for very long.’
‘I don’t care what you say … I don’t believe a word,’ the younger of the boys grumbles, stopping on the same street corner. ‘Besides, how are you going to explain to them that we’re coming back the day after tomorrow … and that we’re planning to spend the night?’ ‘I don’t have to fucking explain myself to anyone … You’re really starting to piss me off now … Just drop the subject,’ the older boy sneers, glaring over his shoulder, his attitude suddenly changed.
Then, looking up at the church towers, the elder boy speaks in his usual tone. ‘We’d be better off worrying about what we have to do now … I told people to meet us in the courtyard in two hours … and there are a shitload of them … How many asked you?’ ‘I talked to a fuckload,’ the younger boy says to the boy who serves as leader, following him into the narrow alleyway where they usually rest.
‘What do you mean by a fuckload?’ the elder boys asks, slumping onto the ground and thinking to himself: Why am I bothering to ask? … How would he even know what a fuckload means? Then, unaware of how or why the thought has popped back into his mind, the boy who serves as leader adds: ‘You didn’t say anything to that bitch, did you … the pregnant one?’ ‘I knew you recognised her too … She took one look at you and did a runner!’ says the boy who serves as lieutenant, then suddenly loses his train of thought: a shadow has stepped into the narrow alley where they are resting.
‘What the hell are you talking about? … How would I know her?’ The elder boys sounds indignant, but he, too, loses the thread. Moving quickly, the figure that appeared in the alley where they hide the threadbare blankets from their stall is bearing down on their bolt-hole, causing the boys’ tongues to shrivel and their bodies to stiffen.
Staring at the shifting shadow, both boys draw their knives and tense their every muscle, then exchange a look that is both question and answer. Just as the elder boy is about to leap out, brandishing the blade, the shadow stops and says: ‘This fell out of one of the pockets … I thought you might need it …’ And they do need it.
Recognising the voice that has just spoken, the younger boy lights up the face with the flashlight in his other hand, then gets to his feet, pushes his brother out of the way, stretches his hand out and, grabbing the identity card proffered by this man who does not know that he has narrowly escaped being murdered, turns his face to the elder boy and says: ‘He bought something from us on the square.’
‘It was in one of the pockets … I found it in these,’ the man who almost lost his life here says, shaking the pair of trousers he bought from the two boys.
‘You scared the shit out of us,’ the younger boys says, studying the little card he is holding.
‘I came back to the square as soon as I found it, but you were gone …’ explains the father who has left his young daughter standing on the corner.
‘Going round scaring people is not a good idea.’
‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says Hewhostillboastsasoul. ‘I spotted the two of you walking and I followed you here.’
‘Following people isn’t a good idea either,’ the younger boys says, raking the shadows with the beam of his flashlight. ‘Where did you leave the girl?’
‘She’s waiting for me on the corner,’ the man says and, babbling, adds, ‘I just thought you might need it … Forget I was ever here and I’ll see you in the churchyard in two hours.’
‘And it’s not a good idea to split you … You shouldn’t leave your daughter alone even for a second,’ the elder boy advises, interrupting Hewhostillboastsasoul, ‘in a second, anything could happen.’
‘I’m really sorry … I hope you’ll forgive me,’ Hewhostillboastsasoul says, turning and running back to the street corner.
‘I hope she’s still there!’ the younger boy laughs and turns to the elder, who is still studying the little identity card. ‘What do you think?’
‘Ugly little bitch,’ the elder boy says, sitting back on the ground.
‘How do you know it’s a girl?’ the younger boy asks, sliding down onto the ground and, shuffling towards his brother, glances at the card.
‘For fuck’s sake … She’s the moron who was with the old man,’ the elder boy says, leaning his head back against the wall.
‘What old man?’
‘The old guy who said he could tell our fortunes,’ the elder boy says, closing his eyes. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Are you sure?’ the younger boy allows his body to relax.
‘How can you not remember that stupid bitch?’
‘I remember the old guy.’
‘He was a bastard,’ the elder says, dropping the identity card and closing his eyes again. ‘I’m going to sleep.’
‘A poor fool.’
‘…’
‘But I didn’t see the ball,’ the younger boy says as exhaustion overcomes him, making the words unintelligible.
‘What the … who … what ball?’ the elder mutters, his head nodding.
‘The old guy …’ the younger murmurs, his neck sagging.
‘The old … woman … that bitch!’
Just before the two of them nod off, the elder of the two boys opens his eyes for a second and, amid the shadows between the beam of the flashlight the younger boy left on, he sees, or thinks he sees, the face of the woman from the square, the woman who filled his belly with fear.
‘Fucking witch … didn’t give me … You didn’t say,’ the el
der boy tries to say, struggling to keep his eyelids open. ‘You did … you did tell her … the churchyard.’
Though the older boy manages to keep his eyes open a second longer, he cannot get a word out of his brother, who is already dreaming, jumbling the events of the day and the phantoms of the night: in the depths of a ravine that opens in a crimson desert, over the waves of a raging purple river, the old man they were talking about is dancing and telling fortunes.
The old man who is imprisoned in the back of the blood-red pickup trailing the pale-blue truck as both follow the Ford Lobo through the mountain passes of the sierra, and is now talking to the oldest woman among the soulless who have come from other lands.
Give me your other hand … The right hand is no good … It doesn’t matter that it’s burnt … It only seems burnt to your eyes … Fate cannot be burned … Promises cannot be burned … I swear to you they cannot be incinerated or lost.
In the midst of his speech, the oldest of those who have come from other lands, like all the others, loses his balance and falls to the floor: the slope that the blood-red and pale-blue trucks and Estela’s Ford Lobo are now descending is the steepest in the sierra, a sheer drop that the men and women living in the rare shacks hereabouts call La Caída — The Fall.
Recovering his balance and once again surrounded by a circle of listeners, the oldest of all the nameless takes the left hand of the godless creature in front of him, who now leans her shoulder against the chest of other men as the truck continues to judder down La Caída. La Caída, the vertiginous slope the driver and co-driver of the fake security van can now see in the distance.
‘Look, there, in the distance, La Caída,’ El Tampón says, leaning forwards. ‘I don’t suppose you can see it, but take my word for it I can see it … So put your foot down, that’s where we’re going to ambush Estela.’
Estela, the woman who is still weaving through the byways of her past even as she weaves through the sierra, leading the convoy in which the oldest of all the nameless caresses a charred palm, before bending to lick the glassy skin.
Among the Lost Page 17
