by Selva Almada
He had taught Tapioca to respect the natural world. He believed in the forces of nature. But he had never mentioned God. He could see no reason to talk about something he thought irrelevant.
From time to time, they would go into the forest and observe its behavior. The forest: one great creature seething with life. A man could learn all he needed to know just by watching nature at work. Everything was written there in the forest, continually, as if in a book of inexhaustible wisdom. The mystery and its revelation. Everything, if you could learn to hear and see what nature had to tell and show.
They would keep still for hours, in among the trees, attuning their ears until they could tell a lizard crawling on a piece of bark from a worm wriggling on a leaf. You just had to listen to apprehend the pulse of the universe.
When he was younger, Tapioca had been scared of will-o’-the-wisps. One of the good-for-nothings who came to the garage told him a bunch of stories, and after that the kid was too scared to go out and piss on his own at night. He couldn’t sleep and the next day he’d wander around like a zombie. One night, fed up with all that nonsense, the Gringo took him by the scruff of the neck and led him out into the fields. They wandered around for hours until at last, just before dawn, they found what the mechanic was looking for. Far off, among the trees, they saw a quivering brightness.
“There’s your will-o’-the-wisp,” he said.
The kid started bawling, and the Gringo had to take him by the arm and drag him to the site of the discovery.
Beneath the trees they found the carcass of a medium-sized animal: a goat or a small calf. Brauer pointed the flashlight to show Tapioca the little flames that were rising from the putrid flesh and fluttering in the dark night air.
Now he was thinking that perhaps he should have warned the kid about the stories in the Bible. It had been simple to find a natural explanation for the will-o’-the-wisp. It wouldn’t be so easy to get that stuff about God out of his head.
12
“Excuse me,” said the Reverend.
Brauer, who had gone back to work on the motor, started and bumped his head against the inside of the hood.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just going to get some things out of the car.”
“Feel free. It’s yours,” said the Gringo grumpily, rubbing his head with his fingers.
The Reverend leaned into the back of the car and reappeared with a pile of books.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s trickier than I thought. I’m trying to figure it out, but I don’t know if I can fix it.”
“Don’t worry. We’re not in a rush.”
“I thought you were expected somewhere.”
“They know we’re coming in the next few days. But not exactly when. The ways of the Lord are mysterious; you never know what can happen, so I prefer not to be too precise about my arrival time, otherwise people get worried, you see.”
“Sure. If I can’t fix it, I’ll take you to Du Gratty. You’ll be able to find somewhere to spend the night there.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There are still a few hours of daylight left, Mr. Brauer. You carry on; don’t worry about us. We’re happy to be here, my daughter and I, getting to know you and José. We’ve been on the road long enough to know that patience is a good counselor. There’s a reason for every turn of events, even if we don’t know what it is.”
The Reverend walked away with his books. Brauer stood there watching him go back to the house and settle down again under the awning.
He shook his head. The sooner he could get that damned car fixed the better. He could already see himself giving the Reverend and his daughter the beds, while Tapioca and he slept on the floor along with the dogs.
Why hadn’t he listened to Tapioca? They should have gone fishing that morning, like the kid wanted to. But he had said no: with the heat, the Bermejito would be packed; you could never catch anything there on the weekends; all those people made so much noise it scared the fish away.
Anyway. He too had learned that patience is a good counselor. With patience and saliva … he thought and bent over the motor again.
“Boss,” cried Tapioca.
The Gringo raised his head suddenly and bumped it again in the same place.
“Jesus, kid, what is it?”
“Here’s the maté.”
“What the … why’d you have to yell out like that and make me jump? Can’t you see I’m trying to concentrate here?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Blahblah … shut up and brew it. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, you’re chattering away like a parrot.”
Tapioca laughed and handed him the maté.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
“Didn’t I tell you to watch the kettle?”
“What can I do? It’s like that when it comes out of the faucet. I didn’t let it boil, but it’s pretty hot.”
“Right. You brew two matés like this, and then it’s all washed out, and you’re done. Clever, aren’t you? Hand me that spanner. And brew me another one; it’s not bad.”
“I can make you a tereré if you like.”
“That’s for women, kid. You have to make maté with hot water. As my dad used to say: it warms you up in winter, and in summer it cools you down.”
“Was he good, your father?”
“Good? I guess so. He didn’t kill anyone, as far as I know.”
“The man said I have the same name as Jesus’s father.”
“Was he called Tapioca?”
“José, Gringo. My name is José.”
“I know, kid. I was joking.”
“Except he wasn’t the real father. But he brought him up. Like you brought me up.”
“Here, take this and clean it for me.”
“God is your father.”
“Give me the maté.”
“You’re like my father, Gringo.”
“Here.”
“I’m never going to forget what you’ve done for me.”
“Come over here. Hold these cables for me. Apart.”
The body is Christ’s temple. Each one of your bodies houses a soul, and within each soul dwells Christ the Lord. So the body cannot be bad.
Look at yourselves.
Each one of you is a unique and perfect creation. Each one has been imagined by the greatest artist of all time.
Praise be to God.
You might say to me: Reverend, I have only one leg, or one arm; I lost a hand in an accident; my spine is broken and I can’t walk. You might say: Reverend, I am blind in one eye, I limp, I stutter, I have lost a breast, I have an extra finger. You might say: Reverend, I am old, I have lost my teeth and my hair, I am a human wreck. Reverend, I’m no use for anything, I’m ugly, I’m sick, I’m ashamed of my body. You can come to me dragging your torso without any legs to carry it. You can come to me completely paralyzed, with your mouth all twisted and drooling. You can come to me covered with sores and wounds, with scars all over your skin. You can come to me in the minute before death takes you and still I will say: You are beautiful because you are the work of God.
Praise be to the Lord.
I ask you then: If your body is the temple of Christ, why do you mistreat it? Why do you let yourselves be oppressed, violated, beaten? I ask the women: Why do you let your husbands or fiancés or fathers or brothers abuse your bodies? And the bodies of your children? How often have you justified a push, a slap, or an insult in the name of love? And I ask each man: How often have you used your body, the body that God has given you, the body that should be the temple of Christ and not the Devil’s lair, how often have you used it to hurt other people?
If a group of men burst in here right now and started kicking things, breaking chairs, burning the curtains, would you all just sit there and do nothing to protect this place? I am sure that you would all rise up and use your strength to throw out the intruders; you would all defend this church that Christ inspi
red you to build with your own hands.
I ask you then: Why do you not defend your bodies in the same way?
If the healthiest person among you were to go out naked into the street on a rainy winter night, that person would have a ninety-nine percent chance of catching pneumonia. In just the same way, if you expose your body to sin, there is a ninety-nine percent chance that the Devil will take it.
Christ is love. But don’t confuse love with passivity. Don’t confuse love with cowardice. Don’t confuse love with slavery. Christ’s flame illuminates, but it can also light a raging fire.
Consider this and testify.
13
Brauer started the car and sat there listening, his head against the steering wheel. It was sounding better. He got out and bent over the motor, straining to hear. He smiled. He had finally narrowed it down.
He needed a bit of a rest. And something cold to drink.
As he approached the porch, the Reverend looked up from his books and smiled at him.
The Gringo waved and headed for the bathroom. After emptying his bladder, he took off his shirt. He turned on the faucet, put his head and torso under the shower, and waited for the water to cool down. He picked up a cake of soap and lathered his arms, his neck, his armpits, and his hair. And he leaned there, with his hands on the untiled wall, letting the soapy foam run off his body and gather around the sinkhole in the floor. He turned off the faucet and shook the water out of his hair, like a dog. He grabbed a towel that was hanging from a hook and dried himself. Then he put his shirt back on and went out again, refreshed.
The Reverend had gone back to his books. Brauer walked behind him, stepped inside, and came out with an ice-cold bottle of beer and two glasses. He stood beside the table. Pearson lifted his head and smiled at him again.
Brauer rested the bottle on his thigh and prized the top off with his lighter. He poured himself a glass.
“Would you like one?”
“No thank you. I don’t drink.”
“It’s good and cold,” said the Gringo, and took a very long gulp that left foam on his mustache. “Looks like I got a handle on your car.”
“Is it ready?”
“Not yet. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but you should be good to go pretty soon.”
“As I said, there’s no hurry.”
“But your friends are waiting for you, Reverend. You must be keen to see them.”
“Pastor Zack and his family are always in my heart. I know I’ll be hugging them soon; there’s no reason to be impatient.”
“Whatever you say. If I was you, I’d want to get there by dinnertime. It’s nice to share a meal with old friends, don’t you think?”
“With old friends. And with new friends. Yes, of course. Tell me, Brauer, I was wondering, is there a stream around here?”
“A stream? Fat chance. With this drought, there’s not even a miserable water hole left. It’s all gone; the earth has drunk it all. Haven’t you seen the cracks? They’re wider than my finger. You want to go fishing, do you?”
“You could say that. You know, I’m going to take you up on that glass of beer, a small one. Why not?”
Brauer poured him a glass and filled his own again. He pulled up a chair, sat down opposite Pearson (their knees almost touched under the table), and gave him a long, hard look. The Gringo’s small blue eyes, reddened slightly by the glare and the drink, sought out the watery eyes of the Reverend.
“What are you after?” he asked.
Pearson took two little birdlike sips and smiled benevolently.
“What do you mean?”
“Why were you putting ideas into Tapioca’s head?”
The Reverend took off his glasses, folded them carefully, and slipped them into his shirt pocket.
“I wasn’t putting anything into his head. I’d say I was speaking to his heart.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Pearson.”
“I was talking with José about God. You’ve done a good job with that boy, Brauer; you’ve raised him on your own, as if he were your son. His heart is pure. I’ve been traveling around for many years now. I raised my daughter on my own too. And, believe me, that boy has a purity that is very hard to find. As I was saying, you’ve done a great job, but, if I may say so, his religious education has been rather neglected.”
“Tapioca’s a good kid, Pearson.”
“Absolutely. I’m not doubting that. But tell me, Brauer, how long do you think such a fine soul can survive in this corrupt world, with all its temptations? How long, without the guidance of Christ?”
“Tapioca doesn’t need any Christ. He knows what’s bad and what’s good. And he knows because I taught him, Reverend.”
“You’re a good man. You’ve done all you can for the boy. Now you have to let Jesus take over.”
The Gringo leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
“Jesus!” he said and laughed through clenched teeth. “When Tapioca was left here, he was like a baby animal abandoned by its mother. And I don’t mean a pup. I raised all these dogs from pups: give them a bit of food and a pat and the next day they follow you around wagging their tails. No. Tapioca was like a little wild animal, a pampas cat: timid and wary. It took me months to get his trust and affection. I know him like the palm of my hand. And believe me, he doesn’t need any Jesus Christ. And he doesn’t need some John the Baptist like you to come along with your snake-oil spiel and tell him about the end of the world and all that crap.”
The Reverend took another sip, playing for time. He knew about men like Brauer. Men who were basically good but hadn’t let Christ into their lives. Men who lived from day to day, trusting their instincts, never realizing they were part of a bigger plan. If you didn’t want to get them offside, you had to watch your step. Brauer had obviously graduated from the school of hard knocks. The Reverend himself might have lived like that if not for his collision with Christ on the riverbank that afternoon so many years before. Men like Brauer were a real challenge for him.
“I understand,” he said.
The Gringo examined him, keeping his guard up.
“I understand completely. I apologize for interfering. Do you have a little more beer? It’s been so long since I had a drink, I’d forgotten how delicious it is. After all, if God put it on earth, it has to be good, don’t you think?”
The two men finished their beer in silence.
“The wind is changing,” said Brauer, standing up and stepping out from under the awning.
The Reverend got up from his chair too and went to stand beside the mechanic. They looked at the sky.
“Do you think it might rain?” asked Pearson.
“No. They didn’t say anything on the radio. Bit of blustery wind, that’s all. I’m going to get back to it, Pearson.”
“Sure, sure.”
The Gringo walked away slowly, followed by one of the dogs. He took the rag that he always kept tucked into his belt to wipe his hands on and began to flick it in the air. On for a game, the dog stopped in his tracks and started jumping up to grab the piece of cloth. The Gringo waved it higher and higher, up to the level of his own head. The dog kept jumping and barking, baring his teeth, until he managed to snatch the rag and run away. The mechanic ran after him for a few yards but then had to stop, coughing his lungs out.
The Reverend had been watching the scene with a smile, but he was alarmed by the sight of Brauer bent double and coughing like that.
“Are you all right?” he called out.
Hands on his knees, hawking and spitting out threads of saliva, the Gringo lifted an arm to signal that he was all right, no need to worry. When the fit was over, he wiped his mouth on his arm.
“You watch out, you mongrel,” he shouted at the animal, who had flopped down near the Reverend’s car with the rag still in his mouth, wagging his tail.
Pearson decided to stretch his legs. The beer had made him feel woozy and he needed to clear his head. He climbed up onto the verge and bega
n to walk along beside the empty road. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and the hot wind blew in and filled it out, making him look like a hunchback. He walked slowly, with his hands in his pockets.
The scene of the baptism came back to him again.
When his mother had thrown him, the Preacher had caught him in his cold, wet arms and kissed his forehead. He was frightened and kept his eyes fixed on his mother, who was smiling at him from a few yards away. He was scared that she might vanish into the crowd and abandon him forever.
He had heard stories like that. His grandmother had told him that once, when she was waiting for the train, a woman had come up to her with a baby wrapped in a blanket. The woman asked her if she could hold the baby while she went to the bathroom. His grandmother said yes, take your time. When the train blew its whistle coming into the station, the woman still hadn’t returned. So his grandmother left the baby with a policeman and boarded the train. She never found out what had happened: had the mother come back or had it all been a trick to get rid of the child? She kept looking out the window until the train pulled out and the platform shrank away, but there was no sign of the woman.
When the Preacher tried to give the boy back to his mother, she raised her arms and cried out:
“Praise be to Jesus! And praise to the Prophet who speaks in his name!”
The group of believers went crazy; all at once they raised their arms, forming a great human wave, begging the Prophet to speak to them in the tongue of Christ.
So he had no choice but to give his sermon with the child still in his arms. And the child being solidly built, the Preacher had to keep shifting the weight from side to side. With each shift, the boy had a different view of the group that had gathered on the beach to listen.
Gradually he got over his fear and began to enjoy the attention: so many pairs of eyes fixed on him (although, in fact, they were looking at the Prophet), so many faces, rapt or smiling or even crying, but all giving off so much love.
