by Cesar Aira
“No, it won’t be useful in the slightest. If experience has taught me anything, it is that the less one knows, the more effectively one can act. But I’ll tell you anyway, because we do have the time. You should start out tomorrow morning.”
He lapsed into silence for a while, organizing his thoughts. “Let’s think where I can start. I should say at the outset that there is a lot of absurdity in the whole thing.”
“That’s the least of my concerns.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. Well, it’s true we had taken all kinds of precautions to guard Cafulcurá, but not for any real reason. There’s a paradox for you, seeing that in the end what happened was something real, all too real. Years ago, some hired shamans carried out who knows what oracular maneuvers, as a result of which there emerged the prophecy that on the day our chieftain celebrated his seventieth birthday, he would suffer an accident similar to the one that had happened thirty-five years earlier, when he reached that age. On that occasion, the birthday celebrations were complicated because they coincided with Cafulcurá’s wedding, since he was finally to be married to the great love of his life, the marvelous Juana Pitiley, whom he had yearned after for more than a decade. The celebrations were extraordinary: a week-long feast, with the inevitable over-indulgence in drink — you can imagine the state we were in by the end. At midnight on the final day, a small band of Vorogas had not the slightest difficulty in penetrating right to the heart of our encampment, picking up Cafulcurá like a bundle of dirty linen, and making off with him. In those days, the Vorogas were nothing like what they are today, except in their evil ways. They were nomadic groups, who could not get used to the plains: anarchists, in a word. Nor were we exactly what we are nowadays. Cafulcurá was young, somewhat dissipated, and our organization in times of peace left a lot to be desired. All this is to explain why the kidnapping caused such disarray in our ranks. It took all Juana Pitiley’s ardor to achieve the miracle of rounding up a party to set off after the Vorogas, and to pursue them for weeks without losing their trail. It was an entire small tribe which had carried out the kidnapping. They went at a good pace, and by pure instinct headed for the southern mountains. We never found out what they intended to do with Cafulcurá, but the fact is they kept him alive, drugged with herbal drinks. Since they knew they were being followed, as they believed by a large force, they spread out and holed up in the mountains, keeping their captive well hidden. When our warriors arrived, there was a series of skirmishes, in which all the ten or more brave Huilliches were killed off one by one, until only the heroic Juana Pitiley was left alive. She was determined to recover her husband or die in the attempt. From this point on, her feat enters the realms of legend. Nobody will ever know what she actually did, but I’ll tell you what has become the accepted version. A different kind of intelligence (now proverbial) came to life in her, a sort of animal instinct, which guided her like a sleepwalker who has the use of reason. Alone, naked, without weapons, she succeeded in getting into the sancta sanctorum of the Vorogas, which in fact was not a cavern but a circle of steep peaks about a league in circumference, at the center of which was a pierced rock, known as the Cerro de la Ventana. One evening she managed to climb up it without being seen, and then, as the sun set, the last ray threaded through the ‘window,’ and on the far side she saw the flight of a hare, later known as the Legibrerian Hare. By now we’re in the realm of pure fiction, for which I apologize. The path the hare followed showed her the way to Cafulcurá. You probably realize that all this could have a perfectly reasonable explanation: how often has the innocence of a tiny wild animal led to the discovery of a secret place? That same night, Juana rescued Cafulcurá all by herself, and the two of them climbed back up the Cerro de la Ventana, where she was sure the Vorogas would not search for them (their natural strategic response would be to disperse, once they discovered that their prisoner had been seized). At dawn, when Cafulcurá came round, they consummated their marriage at the summit of the pierced rock. The next day their escape and the pursuit began. It lasted a whole year. There have been many conjectures about their prolonged flight, but all we really know is that at a certain moment, when Juana Pitiley was about to give birth to the son she had conceived on the night of the rescue, the two lovers separated. As for the duped Vorogas, legend has it that they went to live beneath the earth like armadillos. Cafulcurá returned alone to our tents, and then two months later Juana Pitiley appeared, safe and sound, with a child in her arms: Namuncurá. Since that day she has been the foremost of the chieftain’s thirty-two wives, and a powerful political force in our court. By the way, tomorrow a deputation is to go to Carhué to inform her of the unfortunate occurrence. Her reaction could be fearsome.”
Clarke was no longer listening to him. The mention of the Hare in the Indian’s story had left him on tenterhooks. It was exactly what he wanted to find out about, but he judged this was not the right moment to press Mallén with questions, especially since it was unlikely he had anything important to say on the subject. He also had to give himself some time to reflect on what he had heard. It was bitterly disappointing that this information was coming out just when events were gathering pace around him. Following a very English (but mistaken) line of reasoning, he considered he would be able to think more clearly in peace, away from everything.
“What about Namuncurá?” he asked. “I heard he was on a trip. Has he been told as well?”
All of a sudden Mallén seemed much less self-assured.
“I don’t think it would be easy to find him. . . . Anyway, we’ll see.”
He stood up and went to mount his horse. Clarke did the same. By now it was almost night. They headed for the encampment at a walk.
“Tomorrow,” the shaman said, “you can leave with the riders going to Carhué to see Juana Pitiley. You could accompany them for that part of your journey, it’s on your way. I suggest you go to sleep soon, because they’re thinking of leaving very early.”
“At what time?”
The shaman gave a typically Indian reply.
“At three.”
4: Carhué
Clarke was having dinner with Gauna and Namuncurá’s seventeen wives when all of a sudden Carlos Alzaga Prior burst into the tent, beside himself with excitement. Due to the unexpected turn events had taken, the Englishman had completely forgotten him.
“I’ve come to say farewell,” the youth said.
“What? Why?”
There was a silence. Gauna had not even raised his eyes from his food. Following their invariable custom, the Indian women had acted as if nothing had happened. Clarke was waiting for some explanation, but Prior simply said:
“Could I speak to you in private for a moment?”
“I’m eating, and I would prefer to finish doing so: in peace, if at all possible.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry.”
What an adolescent he was! Clarke decided to teach him a lesson.
“Sit down.”
“But I’m in a hurry!”
“Sit down and eat!”
“No, I’m leaving!”
“Could we have a partridge for Mister Alzaga Prior, please?”
“Yes, Mister Clarke, coming right up.”
Grudgingly, the boy sat on a leather mat. He was served some meat, and began to nibble at it, an expression of disgust on his face. Clarke kept up a pretense at conversation, out of a stubborn regard for form. The Indian women answered every one of his remarks politely (in fact, it cost them very little effort). Namuncurá had not shown a well-defined taste in choosing them: they were of all kinds. At least, that was what Clarke imagined, if he put himself in the shoes of an Indian husband, because to him they were all the same: Indians, with slanting eyes, black tresses, their bodies covered in grease down to their toes, and that somewhat savage docility that concealed a sense of menace.
“And now,” Clarke said when they had finished, “let’s hear what the problem is.”
He stood up. The youth see
med to have lost a good deal of his initial urgency. But he livened up once they were outside the tent. A grave frown returned to his face, although during the meal his childish disposition to be cheerful had led him to relax. The role he had given himself was too important for such an attitude, however, so that by the time the two of them stood outside, he was serious once more, brimming with impatient anger.
“Well then, what’s all this about?”
“Mister Clarke, at this point I must take my leave of you.”
“In what sense?”
“In the only sense possible. I am in love, and I am pursuing my only chance of happiness.”
Clarke said nothing. There was no need. A young person in love always feels obliged to offer lengthy explanations. And, as it proved, he did not have long to wait.
“Yñuy has run away, and I propose to set off in pursuit.”
“Yñuy?” A sudden doubt assailed Clarke. “Would that be a female?”
“Of course! Who do you take me for?”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Who is she?”
“A girl I met when we arrived, and who I fell in love with.”
“In a single day?”
“In a single moment. What’s wrong with that? Time is irrelevant. What matters are feelings.”
“Agreed. And this girl has run off?”
“The thing is, she has problems. I don’t think I was explicit enough about my intentions, and now I want to put that right. What I’m trying to say is that she ran off because she has problems, which are nothing to do with me; but I don’t think she understood that I was willing to help her.”
“What sort of problems?”
“She’s pregnant, and detests the man involved. She’s not married. I don’t know who he is, and I don’t care. I want to offer to marry her.”
“And the child?”
“I’ll give him my name, and love him as though he were my own.”
It was all so typical. Clarke did not know whether to laugh or cry.
“What do you think your parents will feel about it?”
“I don’t have any parents.”
Clarke was disconcerted.
“I’m adopted,” Carlos said.
“That doesn’t matter. You’ll be giving the bastard the name, or names, of your adopted parents.”
“And I’ve every right to do so!”
There was a lot to say, but Clarke preferred not to say it. Especially as it would be of no use.
“So what do you propose to do?”
“To go after her, of course. To find her. Tell her that . . .”
“Yes, yes, all right. Which way did she go?”
“I don’t know. But I’m certain I’ll be able to find her.”
“First things first. Are you sure she’s actually gone?”
“Yes, she left me a farewell message with her best friend. It was a real blow for me.”
“I can imagine.”
Clarke felt the story did not fit together, but once again refrained from expressing his doubt. He thought for a moment. In fact, this foolishness offered an almost ideal excuse to remove the boy from the circle of friends he had become so caught up in. He would not even have to exert his authority: a bit of persuasion should suffice.
“Look,” he said, laying his hand on Prior’s shoulder, “for a variety of reasons which I’ll explain to you later, I have to leave Salinas Grandes, and it so happens that I’ll be heading south, along the only route that people can take out of here. So I see no reason for us to separate. You’ll be safer if you are with me and Gauna, and we could even help you in your search. Do you agree?”
Carlos looked at him suspiciously.
“You’re not doing it just to keep an eye on me?”
A classic young person’s line of reasoning, to believe that the world revolved around their own silly problems.
“We’ll be leaving before dawn,” Clarke told him. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Carlos did not seem very convinced. This coincidence had spoilt most of the effect of his amatory heroism, but he could find no excuse to refuse their company. Clarke took hold of his arm:
“Tomorrow you can tell me about this girl . . . what was her name again?”
“Yñuy.”
“What a nice name. And what do her parents say?”
“She doesn’t have any. She’s adopted.”
“Ah, yes? Her too?”
“That’s the reason I identified so closely with her misfortune. She is so alone . . .”
Clarke cut him short before he could get into full flow.
“I should tell you I am adopted too.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Why not? It happens in England as well, you know.”
“So you must understand . . .”
“Yes, yes. Now go and lie down. I’m going to smoke a pipe. These savages will be waking us up at three.”
“At three! They’re going to have to drag me along. I mean if I manage to sleep. But I doubt I’ll be able to close my eyes.”
“Get along with you.” Clarke pushed him inside, sorry he was exposing him to Gauna’s mocking gaze. But the boy was so sleepy he would not even notice.
Clarke lit his pipe and stood watching the bonfires and the Indians riding slowly by in the night. He was thinking, but had no real idea what about. He was sleepy as well.
A short while later, with the night still dark, the three travelers — of whom Gauna was the only one really awake — left the encampment accompanied by half a dozen silent Indians. The cold of dawn was intense. The lack of sun made itself felt. The stars shone in all their splendor, each of them in sharp outline against the black sky, like shimmering drops of liquid crystal. To anyone who could read them, every possible direction must have been clear in their twinkling. The earth was an ocean of shadow. A few strands of grass captured the dim astral reflections. Apart from that, everything was the purest black. The feeling of space dominated all, without being oppressive. It was a portable grandeur. Clarke, who suffered badly from the cold, had left his gloves in Buenos Aires, and stuffed his hands into a sort of improvised muff he had made. It was an ingeniously adapted piece of eiderdown, that kept him snug and warm. The increasing humidity made the cold seem even more biting. At last, they could hear a bird singing, and from that moment on the whole process of dawn unfolded, with exasperating slowness. A poppy-red sun appeared above the horizon, and soon the world was bathed in a warm glow. Everything had come to life again, that is, distances were defined once more — distances filled with nothing. An azure sky all around. The dark green of the land slowly took on its hallucinatory coloring. From time to time Clarke stared at the Indians, hermetic in their impenetrable silence. Then, when he was least expecting it, one of them spoke to him, to ask if he would care to have breakfast. He agreed, and they soon came to a halt. As if by magic they lit a fire, and in no time at all were drinking tea. Thinking it the least he could do, Clarke had added a handful of the fine Ceylon leaves he carried in his saddlebags. When they had drunk their fill, all the Indians stood up and urinated at great length in unison, starting and finishing together, as though this were their way of thanking him. To see them like that, in a line against the rising sun, was for the Englishman one of those picturesque and unforgettable experiences which give travel all its charm. The daytime part of their ride provided no more dialogue than the nighttime had, although at least there were things to look at. Clarke fell into a highly complicated reverie which took his mind off to the most distant parts, so that when the first partridge started up in front of him he was so shocked he almost had a heart attack. He almost fell off his horse as well, which caused Carlos Alzaga Prior to burst out laughing. Gauna was more sympathetic, perhaps because beneath his bitterly cynical shell he also was a dreamer. After this, Clarke tried to be more observant of his surroundings, but this also required an effort of concentration, so that the second partridge had the same effect as the first, or even worse, because he thoug
ht he was prepared for it.
It must have been seven or half past by the time they spied the outskirts of Carhué, the famous thermal spa. Some hills and valleys added spice to the landscape, as they rode down a route or track the Indians had made in their constant pilgrimages to the lake. There were no trees, but lots of agave plants, some of them huge. When they reached the seasonal tents the summer visitors put up, they separated. The Indians finally opened their mouths to wish them a good journey. Now the three of them had to rely on Gauna’s judgment. The night before, the tracker had claimed he knew the way from here to Coliqueo’s camp perfectly, and Clarke had no other option but to believe him. They said farewell and headed off to the left, while the Indians made for the tents.
The track climbed, and suddenly on their right they could see the lake, the color of tarnished silver, very still and endless. Far off in the middle stood an island. In spite of the early hour, or perhaps because of it, there were a lot of bathers on the lakeside or splashing about in the water. When they emerged, they dried off in the sun, and the salt caked on their bodies, leaving them looking as white as ghosts.
They could see that the Indians they had come with were trotting along the lakeshore. As the three of them continued to climb their high ground, they watched them head for a group of women further off. When the Indians reached the group, they dismounted and began to talk ceremoniously, puffing out their chests. As the three white men came level some distance away, Clarke paused out of curiosity. The Indians were talking in front of a woman whose companions had stayed a few paces behind. This was Juana Pitiley: Clarke was sure of it, even though he had never seen her before. She was naked, and was covered from head to foot in dried salt, which gleamed in the sun like diamond dust. Despite her years, which could not have been less than sixty, she was a beautiful, imposing woman, and so tall that the Indians opposite her looked like squinting dwarves. She was very still. She must have already heard the news, but said nothing. There was something tragic, or indifferent — but in either case, sublime — in the way she stood immobile. Clarke could not take his eyes off her, or continue on his way. An inexplicable fascination drew him to the sight. It seemed to him as though she raised her eyes, sparkling with salt crystals, to look in his direction. When they finally got going again, she had still not moved. In his confused state after seeing such a vision, Clarke was sorry he had been unable to talk to her about the famous Hare. Yet at the same time he realized it would have been useless to try to do so directly. She did not seem the kind of woman who responded to questions. In fact, she did not seem the kind who spoke at all to mere mortals.
