Among the Lost

by Emiliano Monge

  ‘Bastard … You’re the one who’s never beaten me!’

  ‘Whoever wins today gets to keep it.’

  ‘Gets to keep what?’

  ‘Whichever of us wins keep this,’ the older boy says, slipping a hand into his shirt and taking out the medal hanging around his neck.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Whoever wins gets to keep it!’ The older boy drops the medal and it bounces against his sternum, then he brandishes his flashlight like a sword.

  ‘You’re serious — if I win I get to keep it?’ says the younger boy again, but before he can raise his guard, he is attacked.

  ‘And the champion slays him while he’s still off guard!’ crows the older boy, planting the glowing beam that serves as his sword into the belly of the boy who does not serve as leader.

  ‘Not fair … we hadn’t even started!’

  ‘And the champion gets to keep the medal of all time!’

  ‘You cheated … You cheated like you always do,’ the younger boy says, storming off, then he turns and heads towards the place where those who recently arrived from other lands are sitting on the ground.

  ‘And the loser whinges because he lost again!’ says the older boy as he walks towards the group.

  ‘Go fuck yourself!’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea … Learn to lose like a man instead of throwing a tantrum.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Are you pissed off?’

  ‘…’

  ‘What are you angry about now?’ asks the older boy as he reaches the huddled mass of those who still believe they might change their destiny, as they stare at him, dumbfounded and relieved.

  ‘I don’t want to start a fight here,’ says the younger boy, training his flashlight on the men and women who, recognising them, struggle to their feet.

  ‘I don’t want to fight either,’ says the older boy, walking through the swarm of men and women staring at them without making a sound.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it right now,’ says the younger boy, flanking the group on the other side. ‘You lot better keep up … No one’s going to look out for anyone who lags behind.’

  ‘Look, let’s say I didn’t win the medal … Best of three, what do you say?’ the older boy offers, turning towards the men and women now following behind. ‘You heard him … No one’s going to be bringing up the rear.’

  ‘Anyone who falls behind stays here!’ growls the younger of the sons of the jungle, walking faster, and then turning back to the older boy, says: ‘It’s raining harder than it was earlier.’ ‘And it’s likely to carry on for a long time,’ says the boy who serves as leader, turning his face towards the sky and staring at the leaden, lowering clouds. From time to time a lightning bolt illuminates the heavens and a guttural clap of thunder sends a shudder through those who have come from far-off lands.

  Looking down from the clouds to the earth, the older boy spots the flickering flames rising from the jacaranda tree struck by the earlier thunderbolt, which is still blazing despite the incessant drizzle. When, finally, they reach the jacaranda, the older boy turns to the junior who follows his orders and, breaking the silence that has hung over their long march, he says: ‘How could you think we were going to keep it?’

  ‘How could I think what?’ the younger boy says, though as he speaks he hears the words: ‘I told you we were going to sell it on the other side of the border.’ Then he watches as the leader once more slips a hand into his threadbare T-shirt and holds up the medal that, many years ago, was awarded to Mausoleo. Mausoleo, who is still sitting between Epitafio and Sepelio in the cab of the Minos.

  Minos, the container truck that is about to meet with an accident that will put an end to its flight, a headlong race brought about by the events that preceded it: having left behind the house in which Osaria still lies unconscious, Epitafio, Sepelio and Mausoleo raced along the road leading from the great forest to the scrubland, arguing about whether they would arrive too late in Los Pasos, the village they reached just in time to climb down from the cab and sell the nameless women to Sepulcro, the man who had come to buy them.

  More happy to have made it on time, than with the profit from the sale, Epitafio, Sepelio and Mausoleo sealed the container, bought half a kilo of beef from a roadside barbecue and, as they wolfed their tacos, they set off through the scrubland, goading each other, though each was really lost in his own thoughts: Mausoleo was wondering what happened between the two men now separated by his body; Sepelio was angry with himself that he had not taken the time to call the men from Lago Seco; while Epitafio could not understand why Estela had still not called him back.

  More apprehensive than nervous, Epitafio, Sepelio and Mausoleo left behind the scrubland — each slipping a little deeper into himself, even as the tone of their taunts, whenever they emerged from themselves and spoke, grew more vicious — and reached the village on the edge of the vast, uninhabited Llano de Silencio — the Plain of Silence. They stopped again at Siete Cruces, where, having negotiated the sale of the soulless men to Doña Cárcava, they climbed back into the cab of the Minos and quickly headed towards the one road that crossed the Llano de Silencio.

  The vast, desolate plain that Mausoleo, Sepelio and Hewhoisdeafofmind have been driving through at breakneck speed for half an hour now, arguing with each other fitfully, yet constantly preoccupied with their own thoughts. It is here, a moment from now, that they will be forced to stop, much as they do not want to, and it is here, in circumstances beyond their control, that this frantic sequence of events will be brought to an end. The mayhem that will end here, in the middle of the Llano de Silencio, when the Minos meets with an accident.

  II

  ‘How much do you want to bet he’ll make a run for it?’ Epitafio asks, resurfacing from his inner depths, and his words rouse Sepelio and Mausoleo from their own thoughts. ‘Who wants to bet that this fucker will move first?’ he says again, flicking on the truck’s high-beams and lighting up the distant silhouette of a stray calf in the middle of the road.

  ‘I bet he stays where he is,’ Sepelio says, shaking his head and, dismissing all thoughts of the men from Lago Seco for a moment, he leans forward and claps, still gripping the telephone in his left hand: ‘I bet you the dumb animal won’t move — but you’re not allowed to sound the horn!’ Mausoleo also leans forward, watching excitedly as the Minos barrels towards the calf that is rooted to the spot with fear.

  Before Epitafio or Sepelio can decide on the stakes for their bet, in fact before Hewhoisdeafofmind can make up his mind whether to honk the horn, the Minos reaches the spot where the calf clenches its jaws, turns its face towards the darkness, closes its eyes and tenses every muscle in its body. The clang of metal hitting flesh rolls around the Llano de Silencio, punching holes in the night, jolts the cab of the Minos and the three men who, before they realise what is happening, hear the snap of bone and tendon: none of them realises that a prime rib has punctured the engine propelling them.

  The sickening crack of the mangled body rips through the thick rolling darkness of this vast plain unlit by the moon or the army of stars flaunting their colours — blue, green, red, copper, yellow — it stirs the beasts in the sheltering shadows, sets to lowing the cow that has just lost her calf, and, for a brief moment, silences the nameless imprisoned in the Minos, who continue to sing their fears.

  What can they be doing to him? … This is what we wondered every time they came for someone else … Why are they taking us out, one by one? … Slowing down … The one with the largest pistol came from behind … laughing, insulting, threatening … ‘Bunch of lowborn bastards’ … Then we set off again … the lowborn trembled.

  ‘I told you it wouldn’t move,’ Sepelio says when the crack of bone beneath the mortally wounded engine fades: ‘I told you, so you have to pay up … Those dumb fucking animals never move … They just tense their bodies!’ ‘How do
you expect me to pay you when we didn’t even settle on the stakes?’ Epitafio says, cackling and, bending over to the dashboard, has a quick snort and grabs the pack of cigarettes: ‘If you want someone to pay up, you have to tell them what the stakes are … assuming there’s anyone left to accept the bet!’

  ‘What do you mean anyone? … What the fuck are you tlaknig about hwat od uyo mean nayeno?’ Sepelio rages, but, having snorted a line himself, his tongue twisting the words just as the beams of the headlights begin to twist as Epitafio’s hands wrench the steering wheel: something in the engine implodes and the arms of Hewhoisdeafofmind flail like snapped cords: ‘Shit! … What the hell? … Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’

  Having steeled himself as the truck slewed across the tarmac, left the highway and threatened to barrel-roll, before miraculously managing to steer the Minos back on to the road to a chorus of screams from Sepelio, Mausoleo and himself, Epitafio feels as though his heart — the heart he finally opened to a new life back in Osaria’s house — is about to burst in his chest, and, choking back the slivers of a scream, he takes a deep breath and slams on the brakes: outside, the screech of tyres still echoes across the plain of silence.

  Still feeling shaken, Epitafio blinks his eyes, takes a drag on the cigarette his trembling hand managed not to drop, pats his head, looking for the cap he left behind in Osaria’s house, then turns to the two men who are also struggling to choke back their screams. Seeing terror written on the faces of Sepelio and Mausoleo, Hewhoisdeafofmind bursts out laughing: ‘Chickenshit faggots …! You should be ashamed … The look on your faces …! All that for nothing!’

  Outside, silence lays claim to this wasteland that reeks of burning rubber, while inside the cab Epitafio is still laughing at Sepelio and Mausoleo, who are silently opening two more beers and snorting two more lines; in the container of the Minos, the godless who crossed the borders so long ago gradually stop their wild swaying, regain control of their fears and begin to speak of them again.

  Fucking hell … What happened? … Is it over? … How the fuck? … What was that? … It was nothing … It’s nothing now … Just carry on … That’s right … carry on talking … I am making this journey … Back there I had a family … I didn’t want to leave … They evicted me from my home … They slaughtered my family … I have nothing back there now … That is why I’m making this journey.

  ‘Shame on you … If you could see yourselves … How can you be such cowardly faggots? … I can’t even look at you!’ Epitafio says, stubbing out his cigarette and uncapping another beer and, realising that his hands have stopped trembling, he thinks: Nearly went belly up there … Very nearly didn’t get to start my new life … Another inch and our story would have ended before it even began. Then, Hewhoisdeafofmind takes a long breath and says: ‘At least I don’t have to look at the two of you any more … Get out and assess the damage.

  ‘And don’t come back until you’ve fixed it!’ Epitafio growls, staring at the back of the giant who is following Sepelio’s unsteady progress. ‘And make it fast. I don’t want be stuck here forever,’ Hewhoisdeafofmind warns as Sepelio and Mausoleo disappear into the cloud of steam belching from the engine; then, picturing the woman he loves, he silently rephrases what he has just said, I don’t want to be stuck in this life … I’m done with all this … As soon as I finish this run, it’s all over … There’ll be no more days like this.

  Inside the scalding, stifling cloud of steam still rising from the truck and spread into the darkness that envelops the vast Llano de Silencio — a white cloud that seems almost golden in the beams of the six headlamps — Sepelio and Mausoleo look at each other, then, sweating profusely, they hunker down on the ground, lie on their backs and inch themselves under the engine, and there they see the bloody shards of the mutilated calf.

  ‘Do you know anything about this stuff?’ Sepelio asks, and before Mausoleo has a chance to reply, he wipes the desiccating sweat from his eyes, thinking: I should use this opportunity to call those clowns. Sepelio says: ‘Because I don’t know shit about engines.’ In the distance, the invulnerable silence that slows and intensifies the hours on this plain, is pierced by the roar of an approaching vehicle.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have it sorted in a minute … You’ll see, it’ll be fixed in a second,’ Mausoleo says in a low voice, silently vowing to himself: I’ll fix it and the two of you will be grateful … You’ll both owe me … and I won’t have to confront anyone … I won’t even have to fight one of you to make both of you happy … Maybe this is my lucky day. Far off, the roar of the vehicle grows louder as it gets closer, and since, across the vast expanse of the Llano de Silencio, no sound contends with it, it hurtles towards the spot where the Minos has stalled.

  But Sepelio and Mausoleo cannot hear the sounds belched by the vehicle about to pass over the roar of their own engine; Epitafio, on the other hand, hears the sounds and, steeling himself, he scans the flatlands and peers into the wing mirrors to find the culprit responsible for spreading fear in his cab once more. Where the hell are they? wonders Hewhoisdeafofmind as he fumbles again for the cap he left on the bed of the son he has always loved, and says aloud: ‘You and I can start our lives together getting my son back!’

  You and I can start our new life together kidnapping my boy! Epitafio repeats silently to himself, and, as he does so, he feels an excitement he has never felt before. It is at this moment, through the windscreen of the Minos, that he sees the headlights of the engine that has been making the noise he heard, and watching the vehicle about to pass him any moment now, he says: ‘So that’s what was making the noise,’ even as he silently thinks: You and I can … or maybe not … because first you have to answer my call … to begin our new life together, you have to talk to me!

  By the time the vehicle finally passes the hulking Minos, trailing the rattle of its ramshackle engine, the shriek of frayed shock absorbers and the muffled creak of springs worn down by time, Epitafio can no longer hear it: his attention is focussed on his thoughts, on this other plain of silence where he is wandering between doubts and fears and dreams: Why haven’t you called me back? … Why haven’t you talked to me when I’ve already told you it doesn’t matter what you had to say to me? … That I’ve decided … I’m done with all this … I want us to be together, you and me … I just want to be with you!

  For their part, the creatures who have come from other lands, the bodiless still hanging by their hands, also hear the rattle, the shriek and the creaking that have now begun to fade: yet, for the first time these shadowless creatures do not know what they are hearing and so they continue with their song:

  I was living happily when they came to my village one day … They killed almost everyone and left … They left a chainsaw on my bed … Then the police came and I told them what happened … They asked for the chainsaw, but we couldn’t find it … so they accused me … They said I was the one who had murdered everyone … so I was forced to run away.

  Unlike earlier, Sepelio and Mausoleo also hear the vehicle passing and fading into the distance as they lie next to each other under the malfunctioning engine splattered with calf’s blood, suffocating in a swelter that combines the heat radiating from the mechanical heart of the Minos, and that which is already beating down on the Llano de Silencio, though morning has barely broken.

  ‘That’s the first I heard pass round here.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s the first car that has passed since we started crossing the plain,’ Mausoleo says, adjusting the engine above his head.

  ‘Stop thinking about that and focus on your job,’ Sepelio orders. ‘Fix this heap of shit.’

  ‘I’ll have it fixed in a minute,’ Mausoleo says, plunging both arms into the tangle of metal threatening to scorch him. ‘The problem is this bone, here.’

  ‘How could a bone have caused this?’

  ‘The fucker snapped the tim
ing belt,’ the giant says, looking at the shard of bone he has just pulled from the mass of iron and setting it down. ‘Then it buried itself in the crankcase.’

  ‘So, can you fix it?’

  ‘I told you, I’ll have it sorted soon,’ Mausoleo promises, picking the pieces of the broken drive belt from between the crankshaft and the pistons. ‘How come the engine doesn’t have a casing? … It’s a piece of shit.’

  ‘Well, quit with the talking and fix it,’ Sepelio says, glaring at Mausoleo. ‘Got it?’

  ‘…’

  ‘That’s good … keep your trap shut.’

  ‘If you want, I can do this on my own … You don’t have to stay here,’ Mausoleo says. ‘You don’t have to stay here suffocating with me.’

  ‘That’s … even better. Now you’re starting to catch on,’ Sepelio says and, rolling over on to his front, he starts to drag himself out on to the road. ‘Maybe this is your lucky day,’ he says, all the while thinking, I’ll call them now … I can use this time to phone those dumb fucks.

  ‘Of course it’s my lucky day,’ the giant says without knowing why, and immediately regretting it, he begins to babble, words, he babbles, ‘Don’t mind mehow am I supposed to knowjust leave me here justgo before you melt andleave me to it justleave me your belt I’ll can use it to fixit I’ll get her runningeven if only as far as the next townwe can buy a new one there.’

  ‘So you think this is your lucky day,’ Sepelio says with a faint smile, taking off his belt as he hunkers in front of the truck. ‘So tell me, why do you think it’s your lucky day?’

  ‘…’

  ‘I’m asking you to tell me why you think you’re lucky … Do you have a fucking clue what’s happening?’ Sepelio says, handing the giant the belt he has just taken off.

  ‘…’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking coward, say something!’ Sepelio roars, and glaring again at Mausoleo, he shouts, ‘Tell me right now what you think is going on.’