The Hare

by Cesar Aira

  At this point, Clarke fell silent, and did not resume his story, because at that moment they met up with a band of Indians who were apparently heading at no great speed in a direction that cut across their own path. There were fifteen or so of them, all men, with a few heavily-laden spare mounts. Clarke and his companions had not spotted them because despite appearances they were in fact traveling quite quickly. The Indians shouted greetings that inevitably sounded rather wild, but generally friendly. They circled round the three of them.

  “Who can they be?” Clarke wondered. Gauna had pulled up, to let him take the lead. There was nothing else for it.

  He pushed his horse forward at a walk. None of the Indians responded, but there was one who seemed to be the center of the group. It was to him that the Englishman addressed himself, using common Mapuche: “Good afternoon.”

  “And a very good afternoon to you,” the supposed leader replied. Then they fell silent for a moment. That was the problem on the pampa: it was almost impossible to ignore other people if you met them, but often there was nothing to say to them. Eventually the Indian, in a remarkable display of courtesy, deigned to ask: “What are you up to?”

  Clarke of course chose to tell the truth:

  “We’re going to visit Coliqueo’s camp.”

  “Ah.”

  Another silence.

  “What about you?”

  “Hunting.”

  “Congratulations. Did you get anything?”

  “A little and a lot.”

  No doubt he would explain. And if he didn’t, it was neither here nor there. There were no introductions. After a brief consultation with his companions, the Indian invited the white men to make camp with them, as they were thinking of halting for the night at any moment. Clarke in his turn made a pretense of consulting Gauna. The strangers seemed fairly normal, sociable even. Everyone dismounted. Within a few minutes they had started a large fire, and were sitting talking. Next to Clarke were the Indian he had spoken to, who said his name was Miltín and claimed to be an anarcho-huilliche leader, and his brother. They had glasses, which they handed round and soon filled with a potato liquor. After a couple of initial toasts, Gauna and Carlos went to watch the Indians slaughtering some wild calves for dinner.

  “Now tell me,” said Miltín, “where have you come from, if it’s not indiscreet to ask.”

  “From Salinas Grandes.”

  “Ah, is that so? Were you with that crazy old man?”

  “With Cafulcurá? Of course.”

  “What news is there of his son?”

  “Namuncurá? He wasn’t there.”

  “I reckoned as much. He’s so inconsiderate!”

  “In fact, they didn’t say much about him, although we were staying in his tent.”

  The glasses were refilled, and Miltín changed topics:

  “And what has brought you to this wilderness, Mister . . .”

  “Clarke.”

  “You’re British?”

  “That’s right. A naturalist. I’m carrying out a field study.”

  “Of?”

  “Animals.”

  “How interesting. Let’s drink to your success.”

  They carried on in this vein for some time. The meat was brought to the fire, and the smell of grilling beef accompanied the glow of sunset. This hour of the day, usually so slow and silent for them, flew by in noise and hectic activity. Clarke, who by now knew a thing or two about Indians, was sure that the hunting they had spoken of was nothing more than a white lie: this was a group of liquor smugglers, who were returning loaded down with their merchandise, not a drop of which might reach its destination.

  The ribs were served very rare, and there was no bread or other accompaniment. They were well seasoned though, to the extent that the salt formed a charred crust they had to crack open with their teeth. Clarke called to Carlos, who was chatting animatedly with some of the Indians, his cheeks ablaze from the alcohol, and asked him to fetch his canteen: if he did not calm his thirst with water, he would have to do so with liquor, and he couldn’t guarantee his reaction.

  Night had fallen and they had all eaten their fill of meat, when Miltín, who was beginning to demonstrate the characteristic stubbornness of a drunk, insisted on showing off for his white guests the strange talents of one of his followers, whom he described as a shaman in the making. This fellow was a short, plump, unexceptional-looking savage, with a slightly darker skin than his companions, and who was smeared in a thick coating of grease.

  “This man,” Miltín said, once he had persuaded Gauna and Carlos to sit next to Clarke, “has the incredible ability to enter into a trance whenever he wishes, in an instant, without having to prepare himself.” He paused, to give them a chance to swallow their disbelief, although in truth they had no idea what he was talking about. “Come on, show them.”

  The Indian in question glistened immobile in the firelight. From behind him, a drunken voice shouted: “Ready . . . steady . . . !”

  Miltín silenced up with a curse. Then he said to the fat man:

  “Carry on.”

  At once, they could see him go into a trance. Not a hair on his head had moved, but it was plain that his mind had flown a thousand leagues from them in the twinkling of an eye (not that his eye had twinkled either). He did not stir.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Incredible,” Clarke said. He cast a sideways glance at Gauna, fearing one of his sarcastic sallies, but the gaucho looked not only as bad-tempered and gloomy as ever, but also seemed drunk, and was not paying any attention. Young Carlos was looking on, open-mouthed.

  “Now watch,” said Miltín. “Wake up!”

  The Indian came out of his trance.

  “Do it again!”

  The same thing happened.

  “Wake up!”

  The same trick was repeated four more times. Clarke asked if the man saw visions.

  “Who knows,” the chief said.

  “It’s very likely he does.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  The Indian returned to his companions, and Clarke and the chief resumed their talk. This shifted imperceptibly from paranormal phenomena to the subject of love, and the names of some of Cafulcurá’s children were mentioned. Clarke thought it was the right moment to find out more about Namuncurá. Miltín was not one of those who make a secret of what they know, quite the contrary:

  “So they didn’t tell you where he had gone? I bet you didn’t ask the right person.”

  “In fact, I didn’t ask anyone.”

  “Ah, always the same delicacy, like all Europeans! I can’t see the point of it, because you’re still curious. I ask everybody everything, even how much money they have! What I’ve heard is that the good-for-nothing Namuncurá is chasing a woman, and his father must have gone white with fury when he learned who it was. Do you know?”

  “No.”

  “The headwoman of the Vorogas, the widow of the famous Rondeau.”

  “You don’t say! Rondeau’s Widow!”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “I congratulate you for never having met her. She’s a harpy, one of the most dangerous people loose on the pampa.”

  “And Namuncurá is in love with her?”

  “Who knows what is in a man’s heart? The fact is that for years he has pursued her, preferring to forget the fact that she spurned Cafulcurá himself when she was widowed.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “But that’s no more than scratching the surface of the story, the ‘gossip’ part. The background is historic. I don’t know if you’re aware that Cafulcurá, son of the famous Huentecurá, was a twin. His brother died young, but by all accounts they were identical, to the point where no one could tell them apart. So when one died, it could have been the other, couldn’t it? Anyway, that’s unimportant. The Huilliches though have made a mountain out of that molehill, enthusiastically promoted by Cafulcurá himself, who has gain
ed political advantage from each and every one of the curious events that have occurred in his life. As things stand, one of the long-lasting foundations of his prestige is this line of twins, or multiplication of identity, which he is supposed to represent. I know you’re a civilized man, but please don’t think we are idiots. Consider our historical position. Faced with you white people, we Indians represent the survival of the human race, as against its extermination. So a myth, a symbolic or poetic element, can be of real importance. Now as you know, twins do not normally themselves have twins: Cafulcurá, who has had around eighty children, never had any. But his children should, and not just for purely biological reasons, but for the politico-magical dimension as well. Curiously though, none of them has. It’s in this context that the struggle for succession between Namuncurá and Alvarito Reymacurá has to be seen. Their reputation as womanizers is based entirely on their grotesque pursuit of these twins. Namuncurá has always held the advantage, because no woman can resist him. . .”

  “Really? Is he very good-looking?”

  Miltín threw him a look which combined a hint of sarcasm and something darker, but merely said:

  “In your style.”

  Clarke, who knew he was not particularly handsome, said nothing. Then he asked:

  “Yet it seems that the Widow . . .”

  “So it seems. Namuncurá could be playing a double game. On the one hand, it’s said that a long time ago, before her marriage to Rondeau, she had twins. That kind of predisposition is very valuable. It’s also possible that the rumor in fact started after Namuncurá began to pursue her. On the other hand, he could be after what no Indian leader has had before: a warrior queen, someone who is a political force in her own right, which could make up for the lack of twins — because when it comes down to it, that is nothing more than a shadow game.”

  “It all seems rather far-fetched,” Clarke commented.

  “Even so, it has a rational basis. You should judge by results, not by intentions.”

  “But is it certain that Namuncurá is with the Widow? There were other versions circulating in Salinas Grandes about where that woman was, and what she was doing.”

  “Ah, yes? What were they?”

  As Miltín himself had said, he made no attempt to hide his curiosity. Clarke thought it wiser not to give him the latest news: he would surely find that out from another source, and he had been recommended to keep silent.

  “I’m not sure, but as far as I understood, I think they were even afraid she might attack them.”

  “Bah! they always say the same. As if the great Mapuche empire had anything to fear from a poor woman and her band of madmen. What is certain is that this time Namuncurá is risking everything, because word has it that the Widow is preparing for her final withdrawal to the Andes, where she came from originally. It seems she considers her time on the plains is drawing to a close.”

  A loud snort from Gauna distracted Clarke. It seemed the tracker had been paying them close attention, and Miltín’s final words had startled him. But they were unable to continue their conversation, because a sudden argument had broken out among the Indians around the fire. The din was infernal. While Clarke had been talking, part of his mind had been following the stages of the Indians’ increasing drunkenness. He had heard them go through the “how much I love you, brother” stage; now they had reached the inevitable aggression and insults. Miltín had also continued to drink while they talked, and when he went to mediate in the dispute, he was every bit as inebriated as his followers. His intervention only served to make matters worse. By now, all of them were shouting in hoarse, slurred voices. The firelight added an extra glow to bodies which were already starting to lock in conflict. The funniest thing (or rather the only funny thing, because everything else was so sad in its degradation) was that they kept accusing each other of being drunk: “pie-eyed Indian! pie-eyed Indian!” they repeated like maniacs. And Miltín, the drunkest of all: “pie-eyed Indians!” They were taking it out on one man in particular, as drunk as the rest of them, who apparently had said something insulting about the tribe’s team — because the original argument had been about hockey. The outcome of the quarrel was as rapid as it was unexpected, and for the three white men as terrifying as a bad dream. A knife suddenly glinted among all the shining greased muscles, then its blade opened a wide slit in the throat of the arguer. It seemed that the killing was something that agreed with their chieftain, who was shouting and reeling about. The shock paralyzed Clarke, but not the Indians. In a further frenzy of meaningless violence, they repeated the slash (and even its shape) in the round, inviting belly of the dead man, then plunged their hands into the wound and began to pull out his intestines, with shouts that ranged from fury to amusement. The Englishman leapt up as if activated by a lever. He was overcome with an irresistible urge to re-assert humanity. He wanted to cry out something earth-shaking, but all he could manage, in imitation, was “Pie-eyed Indians! pie-eyed Indians!” Carlos and Gauna tried to hold him back, but unsuccessfully; he was also in his cups, and the alcohol made him reckless. He pushed his way through to the dead body, howling all kinds of insults against the killers and profaners; as best he could, he snatched the slippery guts from them and clumsily tried to stuff them back into the wound; since he was seeing double, he pushed some ends into the gaping throat. Fortunately, the Indians thought this was just another joke, otherwise they might well have stabbed him too. Miltín raised a glass above the scrum and called a toast, but Clarke, raging like a madman, knocked it from his grasp.