by Cesar Aira
5: Traveling South
The journey lasted a week, and took them along one of those straight lines that are so perfect as to be unrepeatable, though this was undoubtedly pure chance, because all Gauna did was calculate the equinoctial line and follow it. They had good weather: tranquil suns, breezes that did not ruffle the shade, a landscape accommodating all the shifting hours and minutes. It was like meeting beautiful women at every step — except that there were no women, in fact there was nobody, which meant they also managed to avoid all the pitfalls of reality. Even the relationship between the three of them remained reasonably unperturbed. Gauna was wrapped up in his own world, and paid no attention to anything or anybody, apart from his whistling, which was a monotonous but harmless accompaniment to their trip. “To think I didn’t bring the dog!” he exclaimed whenever a partridge appeared. He had a theory that a dog could hunt a partridge on its own, without help. And one of his dogs, called Concuerda, was an expert at this. The number of flocks of birds they startled was remarkable, and Clarke often practiced his marksmanship. Whenever he aimed at one partridge in flight and hit another, he invariably admitted it: so much so that his telling of the truth itself seemed suspicious. It was as if he had good but off-kilter marksmanship, something beyond mere skill. Gauna had made it a rule to fetch the game himself, which gave rise each time to a joke the Englishman muttered to himself: “To think I didn’t bring the dog!” Then once when Gauna was retrieving the bird, he quite tactfully let it be known he had heard the Englishman: “She’s called Concuerda, or rather that’s what she was called, because she was trampled by a bull, and I am sorry not to have brought her, truly sorry, and doubly so, because I could not have brought her since she’s dead.” Clarke felt ashamed, and never repeated the joke again. Like all English people, he put the love of animals above everything else.
“Mister Gauna,” he said to him some while later, “you perhaps consider it unjust that I should have made it a condition of your employment that you not carry a weapon. Especially since I brought my own shotgun. But elementary security reasons led me to impose that condition. I won’t be so hypocritical as to claim that if I had known you as I do now, I would have allowed you to come with your gun. It is a matter of principle, which knowledge, that is to say the before and after, does not affect in the slightest.”
The gaucho agreed as if it were so much water off a duck’s back.
There was also the possibility that they were heading in anything but the right direction. Every now and then they caught sight of Indians, but only in the distance, and were unable to exchange information. Once, a lone rider who remained in their sight for hours caught their attention. He was traveling along what was for them the skyline, and his trajectory seemed to be moving from one side to the other, not in the manner of a normal zigzag (in which case they would have noticed him moving closer then drawing further away) but rather as if the whole space between observers and observed were tilting. Things like that gave Clarke food for thought, and of late he had been thinking that in fact he was not cut out to be a naturalist but something else, for which he had no ready name. What was he? He did not know, but then everybody was in the same situation. The wanderer with his intriguing course was a reminder of all the varying positions of life.
The alarming thing was that they saw him again two days later, but this time at a completely different point, separate from the horizon. Since it was improbable that an Indian would be going round in circles for the fun of it, the only reasonable conclusion was that it was they who were going round in circles. Clarke became worried:
“That wanderer . . .” he said to Gauna, drawing a diagram with a twig in the dust when they stopped to camp. He was trying to work out how the rider’s position had changed, but contradicted his own calculations when he tried to include the tilting in space he thought he had detected on both occasions.
“When are you going to stop pestering us with that blasted wanderer of yours?” Gauna eventually protested, and from then on Clarke kept his drawings to himself. After all, he could still put his trust in luck. Even if they ended up somewhere far from the Voroga encampment, it would still be a measurable distance from them. Perhaps the best thing would be to keep away from the Indians altogether. Except that, in addition to his curiosity, Clarke was one of those people who pride themselves on achieving what they have set out to do, even when they have no clear idea what that was.
Besides, all these and many other details of their journey were of minor importance compared to what turned out to be its main attraction: Carlos Alzaga Prior’s loquacity, which reached unsuspected extremes. He was an extroverted, self-assured, expressive type; all that was needed was to pluck the string which would set him resonating indefinitely, and this apparently was what Clarke, or life itself, had done on this occasion. The strange thing was that the Englishman shared this same peculiarity, in spite of the difference in their ages; he felt as though he were looking at himself in a mirror, but twenty years younger. And as his traveling companion’s conversation came to life, so did his own, with the result that there was a perpetual dialogue between them. Gauna seemed happy to take the opportunity to chew over his own thoughts. The glances the other two shot in his direction, inviting him to join in, fell wide of their mark. He whistled, and amused himself staring at the clouds, the grass, or simply into the transparent air.
One morning, the second or third, they set off with the sun already high in the sky, because they did not like to get up early. Or rather they did, but only when there was a pressing need to do so. They had dined and breakfasted on fish, the result of Gauna’s efforts with a rod in an attractive stream they had crossed, and Carlos, no doubt because of the morning cold, felt ill and eventually was sick. Immediately afterward, he felt fine again, better than before the incident: his cheeks were rosy, his eyes shining, his smile as white as milk in his chubby, pleasant face. He brought his horse up into step with Clarke’s.
“Love,” he declared, “is a wonderful thing.”
“So you’ve already told me.”
“But what happened is that I thought it again. I believe you can always think more, with greater intensity, when . . .”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but something has occurred to me, and if I don’t tell you now I’m sure I’ll forget it. As you know, I was brought up in the countryside, in Kent; but in a countryside very different from this one, almost the opposite in fact; the kind of countryside to go for a walk in, inhabited by lots of people. But I’ve also lived in London, and what this desert we are going through reminded me of was in fact London, the greatest city in the world. Strange, isn’t it? They would seem to have nothing in common, and yet the effects are the same, even down to details. If you head in any direction, either along its streets or out into this endless wilderness, the sense of being in a labyrinth where there’s no labyrinth, of everything being on view, of homogeneity, is exactly the same.”
“To me, as someone who hasn’t traveled, Buenos Aires is the greatest city in the world.”
“Well, for me there is a complete reversal: Buenos Aires is like Kent, and the pampa is like London.”
“So you are in the position of the hero in that book of Swift’s, who goes from this world to an upside-down world.”
“Have you read Swift?”
“In a Spanish translation adapted for children. I’m afraid all the sexual references were left out.”
“There aren’t all that many of them, believe me.”
“Books should never be adapted. As a reader, you start thinking of all the changes they must have made, and you don’t enjoy the book.”
“I completely agree. It’s a crime. But a translation is already an adaptation. That’s why it’s necessary to learn languages.”
“Despite that, in my opinion what matters in Swift is the general idea, which comes across in any language, because it’s so strong.”
“I’ll say it is.”
“How can he have got the ide
a?”
“What one should ask oneself is how the idea didn’t occur to any writer before him.”
“It may be that something prevented them from conceiving it. My governess told me that Swift was inspired by a scientific theory which proposes the coexistence of infinitely small and infinitely large worlds.”
“Your governess must have taught you some English. The Argentines are such anglophiles. . . .”
“Very little. Words rather than sentences.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“Surely. She was an old maid, a virgin. But words, even random ones, have their meaning, and allow you to form some idea of the psychology of different nations.”
“How splendid that such a young man should have reached that conclusion. Can you give me an example?”
“There’s the English word ‘game,’ which means ‘pastime, spell of play.’ But at the same time it means ‘a hunted animal,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes, like the French ‘gibier.’”
“But in French you don’t say, ‘I’m going to play a gibier of chess!’”
“No, of course not. And what national characteristic do you deduce from this double usage?”
“A transfer from cause to effect. For you, hunting is a ‘spell of play,’ because it involves ‘fair play.’ Fine. But the word also signifies the dead animal, which has been killed not according to the rules of sport, but thanks to a sure shot.”
“Are you trying to say we English are hypocrites?”
“It’s not the moral judgment which matters, Mister Clarke, but the form. And in this case, the form that I can see is the continuum created between the reality and the result.”
“Everything you have just said is complete nonsense, but what’s striking is that you’ve ended up agreeing exactly with something Cafulcurá said to me the other day.”
“Oh, by the way, what happened to that crazy old fellow? Has he disappeared?”
“That’s a real mess, their own business. ‘For them to deal with,’ as Burke would say.”
“Mister Clarke . . .”
“Yes?”
“How about if we stopped for some tea?”
“Why? Are you still feeling queasy?”
“No. What I’m feeling is an empty stomach.”
“I’d like nothing better. But what will Gauna say?”
Since Gauna had heard every word, it was he who invited them to dismount on the slope of some small hillocks. They had covered an enormous amount of ground while they were conversing. And it was always possible to make up lost time. The second half of the morning ride was even more productive in terms of leagues traveled, which gave them a perfect excuse to take a lengthy siesta beside a wooded creek. The species of tree were somewhat exotic for this latitude, which led Clarke to believe they had been planted by Indians who had emigrated from further north. It seemed very odd that people should emigrate taking tree seeds with them, but after all, it was more practical than taking furniture. They ate scraps. Then the three of them lay back in the shade and fell asleep. Following the Indian custom, which they found very convenient, they left their horses (they had twelve in total) loose to graze: the curious thing was that the animals appeared to have understood the way they were being treated. Clarke was awakened by cries from Carlos Alzaga Prior. When he opened his eyes, he saw the youth sitting upright in the grass, bathed in sweat, his eyes staring wildly. He had had a bad dream. Gauna was busy adjusting the stirrups on three of the horses. They set off again after a drink of coffee to help them wake up.
“I’m sorry about your dream,” Clarke said to Carlos when they had got under way and their horses had fallen in step so that the two men could talk again.
“Nightmares are the worst thing imaginable.”
“Do you think so? I wouldn’t go that far. If nightmares become real, yes. But when you still have the possibility of waking up . . .”
“How clever of you, as always! What you say is true, I’d be the last to deny it. But at the same time, I’d say there’s another truth. One can think one is always in the middle of a dream, precisely because of the consistence of reality, because it continues and keeps on going, though we have no idea how or why.”
“Yes, but sometimes reality is not such a continuum. Sometimes it can be interrupted.”
“Always!”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know . . . don’t ask too much of me.”
“You’re a typical empiricist.”
“What’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Might I ask what exactly you dreamt?”
“I’d better not tell you.” Prior blushed. “I’d rather tell you what I am dreaming now, but you already know what that is.” He gestured toward the vast expanse of pampa.
“Are you enjoying the outing?”
“It’s as if I had just started to live. There’s Yñuy, there’s you. . .”
“Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. But there’s an example for you: Yñuy disappeared, and that whole line of reality was interrupted. It’s as though she passed from one state to another, from one dream to another.”
“We’ll find her.”
“Of course. There’s a bridge: love.”
“That wonderful thing,” Clarke said, quoting his young friend with gentle irony.
“Don’t you think it’s a great wonder that something should exist which can infallibly link the discontinuities of life?”
“Not everybody loves.”
“Yes, everyone.”
“Ah, Carlos, Carlos, if only I were still fifteen like you.”
Their conversation took many unexpected twists and turns. While they talked, the miles slid under their horses’ hooves like a ribbon that could have included everything, not just the ground, but all the rest as well: their thoughts, the sky, the weather. Fifty yards ahead of them, Gauna went on whistling his tune, paying them not the slightest attention. They saw a rider in the far distance. He was no more than a dot, so distant they could not tell whether he was moving or not.
“Can it be the wanderer?” Clarke said. This had become his obsession. He called to Gauna and pointed to the dot in the
distance.
“I’ve already seen it,” said Gauna.
“It’s an Indian on horseback, isn’t it?”
“What eyesight you have,” the tracker said.
“He’s a real eagle,” Carlos Alzaga Prior declared.
“Can it be the wanderer we saw before?”
Gauna shrugged and turned to stare in front once more. When he had got his usual distance ahead of them, Clarke whispered to his companion:
“Gauna seems French.”
“Why?”
“Because of that habit he has of shrugging his shoulders. The French have inherited the gesture from the time of the Revolution, out of fear of the guillotine.”
Carlos burst out laughing. “That’s a good one! I’ll tell it to Federico, who does the same.”
“Who’s Federico?”
“My best friend. It’s a shame he didn’t come.”
“You’ll have lots to tell him when you get back.”
“I’ll say! When he sees me turn up married, and with a child too! He’s not going to believe it!”
“We’re going to have to have a serious talk about that.”
“Why’s that?” Carlos became defensive.
“We’ll talk later,” was all Clarke would say.
“As soon as you meet Yñuy, your doubts will vanish, believe you me.”
“I’ve no doubt she must be an extraordinary girl. But it doesn’t do to rush into things.” Before the youth could let fly with the vehement denial that was on the tip of his tongue, Clarke went on: “I know what you’re going to say. That’s why I’d prefer to drop the subject until later — until you have something to say which might surprise me.”
“Perhaps I never will. You are far too clear-sighted.”
Thi
s might have been ironical, but Clarke let it go. So that Carlos wouldn’t take offense, he asked him to tell him about his family.
Immediately, Carlos was in his element! He loved talking, and always assumed the other person was interested. Since this was of course a mistake, he could not avoid taking it to its extreme and showing a particular pleasure whenever he talked about himself.
“Since I am adopted,” he began, “it could be said I am all the family I have.”
“That’s a grave error on your part,” Clarke said. “There are many ways to have a family. But it’s typical of you: I’ve never known anyone so aware of the circumstances of their birth. As I’ve told you, I also am adopted. And I think I’ve never recalled the fact in my whole life. It’s you who have reminded me of it, and even so, I can’t attach much importance to it.”
“I on the other hand even think I can recall the moment I was born.”
“That’s impossible. Nobody can.”
“Mister Clarke, we always come back to the same thing. You are such a rationalist, but you don’t realize that reason itself can prove you wrong. Tell me, what is there to stop someone recalling their whole life, right from the beginning?”
“You won’t deny that if you ask a thousand, or a million men that . . .”
“That wouldn’t prove a thing, as far as reason is concerned. Answer my question.”
“All right, it is possible. Where does that get you?”
“Do you admit then that everything possible is possible?”
