by Cesar Aira
“You’re right, he is a bit odd. But he’s not a bad sort.”
Clarke kept his thoughts to himself. Aristídes Ordóñez did not appear to him to be a particularly good sort. Who could say what he was escaping from among the savages? And if Gauna succeeded in getting any useful information out of him, he would not tell Clarke — the two of them appeared to have come from the same mold, but at least Clarke was used to Gauna by now.
Soon afterward, Coliqueo sent for Clarke to come to his tent, and so the unbearable interview began. Clarke went alone, sending Carlos off to have a dip in the river.
“I gather,” the chieftain started by saying, focusing his eyes normally after the briefest of squints, “that your honor has come from Salinas Grandes.”
“That’s right. Last night I didn’t have the chance to mention it, because in fact it seemed rather a mouthful.”
“Because your mouth was full of half a cow at least!”
Clarke sighed: his intended joke had fallen flat in Voroga. The Indian went on:
“So my distant cousin Cafulcurá — the more distant the better — has vanished into thin air?”
“You knew about that?”
“I heard about it the other day, by chance.”
“And what did you make of it?”
“I split my sides laughing.”
“Don’t you think he might be in danger?”
“What kind of danger?” Up to this point, Coliqueo had tried to be reasonable, but this was too much for him. Before the Englishman could reply, he raised his arms in protest: “I had nothing to do with it! I knew they’d try to pin it on me! I’m sick to death of those charlatans!”
“If it’s any reassurance, I can promise you that nobody in Salinas Grandes suspected you of having anything to do with it.”
“I should think not! To get me mixed up in their fantasies!”
“But this isn’t a fantasy. The man has vanished.”
“And what do I care?”
“Aren’t the Vorogas enemies of the Huilliches?”
“We have signed a treaty of everlasting peace. It’s a dead letter, but I’m happy enough with it. My concern is my people: production, development, foreign affairs. Within my modest domain, I aim to be a model statesman. They on the other hand live from stealing, from lazing about, from extortion. They’re empty-headed and envious. That madman Cafulcurá has raised the new generation in such an atmosphere of fantastic beliefs, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he ended up dead thanks to some prophecy or spell or other. Serve him right.”
“You’re not mistaken, Mister Coliqueo, at least as far as I am able to judge. I saw some of it in the few hours I spent in their court. But the picture you paint is too gloomy: the Huilliches seem happy enough, superstition or no superstition.”
“Good for them.”
“They have a particular devotion to personal hygiene.”
“To me, politics comes first. Hygiene is secondary.”
“Well, it all depends on what your definition of politics is. For example, I interpreted your earlier words as denigrating the weight that the politics of magic has for them.”
“That’s not politics, it’s hocus-pocus!”
“What if it works?”
“Don’t make me laugh! Do you think it means it’s effective, if their chieftain disappears into thin air in front of his subjects’ noses? They’re condemned to live in a system which is constantly feeding his lunacy. I’m sure for example that this latest episode has given rise to a whole series of laughable exorcisms by his shamans. They’ll climb yet another rung of the ridiculous. It’s effective in a kind of way, I agree, but it’s absurd. But tell me, who is it they suspect?”
“They weren’t blaming ghosts, I can assure you. They presumed — I have no idea with what degree of accuracy or truth — that it had been a woman . . .”
“Rondeau’s Widow! I don’t believe it! They really can’t see beyond their own mad ideas, can they?”
“Is it such a remote possibility?”
“There is no possibility at all. To accuse the Widow is no more than hot air. It’s like saying that a story can become real just like that, because they say so. That’s a good example of their ‘effectiveness’ for you. They’re so far gone they take their own fantasies seriously.”
“What makes you so sure in this case?”
“Because the Widow came through here about a week ago, and she is concerned with other things; if her body — and I can swear to it — never came within a hundred leagues of Cafulcurá, her mind has been a thousand leagues away of late. She was going to join her daughter to celebrate her fifteenth birthday. And it’s not that I’m trying to excuse that viper, much less be her accomplice. On the contrary, I’d be more than pleased if they accused her, pursued her, and wiped her out. It would be one less problem. If I ever get my hands on her . . .”
Clarke thought Coliqueo was contradicting himself, because he had just asserted that the Widow had paid him a visit only a few days earlier. He made no comment. Coliqueo had started up again, this time with one of his leading questions:
“Do you want to know what happened to Cafulcurá?”
“Of course.”
“One of his sons killed him: Namuncurá or Alvarito Reymacurá.”
“Well . . . Namuncurá was not in Salinas Grandes.”
“Where else could he have been? He must have been hidden. They spend the whole time saying the same thing: that the ‘princes of peace’ chase women, that they pursue shimmering illusions like migratory storks. . . . It’s all lies. That farce about twins. The duck’s egg. The hare. The blue gallstone. Pure bunkum! That poor old man is probably paying for his sins buried somewhere on the outskirts of their camp. And his sons are about to gouge each other’s eyes out. What an edifying spectacle that will be!”
“Whose side will you be on?”
“Me? Nobody’s. It’s for them to sort it out.”
“Begging your pardon, your Majesty, but you said you were interested in foreign affairs. That’s quite logical. All the more so considering the fact that the Mapuche federation is in a state of organic equilibrium from Tierra del Fuego up to Córdoba. I don’t understand therefore how you cannot be concerned about the key element in that equilibrium, which is Cafulcurá.”
“That’s because I base my effectiveness on other premises. To be concerned about one individual thing is to lose sight of the whole. Take you, for example, what is it you do?”
At last he’s asking me, thought Clarke. “I’m an English naturalist.”
“A contemplative person?”
“To some extent. It could be said I practice an active kind of contemplation.”
“What area do you work in?”
“Animals, mostly. Although it’s impossible to rule out everything else, because Nature, as you just pointed out, is a whole.”
“Did I say that? Look, what do you think about the duck?”
“What duck?”
Coliqueo thought for a moment. Eventually he said:
“Cafulcurá is full of animal stories. He must have told you lots.”
“Some, but not all that many. One of his shamans told me more . . .”
“Which one?”
“One called Mallén.”
“Is that cheap charlatan still around? I can just see him, forever
peddling his stale repertoire of worthless tricks. Goodness, what a sad lot they are. They’re caught in a mechanism where they can’t change any of the parts, because none of them is real. You’re a scientist: you see one animal for example, then another . . . you make a note of the first, then the second, you think about it, you trust in the grandeur and variety of the world. But them . . . what a difference!”
“They’re different cultures.”
“No, sir. That is to use the concept of culture as an excuse to sanction mediocrity, to persist in superstition and brutishness. They are like children, fascinated by their toys.”
By this
point Clarke, a victim of his companion’s supreme self-deception, had come to regard him as wise and thoughtful. He yielded to this optimism:
“My position as observer, Mister Coliqueo, allows me to take advantage of whatever perspective the people I meet have adopted. The Huilliches’ is one of many. Yours is another, much more rational one. . . .”
“Look, you and I understand each other. You wouldn’t have time to do a spot of work for me, would you? I could pay you well, and I’m sure your studies would benefit from it.”
“Well . . . I’m in the middle of an investigation.”
“You aren’t looking for Cafulcurá, are you?” the chieftain asked jokingly.
“What work is it?”
“It concerns everlasting peace, no less. You would be performing a true service for these lands, with little effort, and at the same time it would remove you from that circle of nonsense which, whatever you may say, your Huilliche friends must have ensnared you in. I’m talking about reality, tangible things, things that can be thought about without a sense of shame. I suppose you have heard about the question of everlasting peace. The Mapuche federation, which has fought within itself for centuries, has finally brought the clearest of its logic to bear on that radiant point which is everlasting peace: the end of time, the dawn of life. Do you believe it’s possible?”
Clarke did not know whether to say yes or no.
“I’m glad you’re hesitating,” Coliqueo said, “because in fact the reply lies elsewhere. Did you believe those animal legends that Mallén told you?”
“Of course not.” How stupid of him! Clarke thought afterward. He had walked straight into the trap.
“Good for you. One of those legends is that of a duck’s egg with two yolks, from which will come two identical ducks, who will swim at dawn on a secret southern lake: and that will be the day of everlasting peace.”
A silence. Clarke had not the faintest notion of what was coming next.
“Well, the job I had in mind is for you to get that duck’s egg for me. With all your knowledge, and with time at your disposal which I don’t have because of all the problems I have to contend with here, and above all with a mind like yours free from prejudice, you’ll find it in no time. And then I’ll be the true emperor.”
Clarke’s astonishment was like a mental earthquake. He suddenly realized that everything he had been listening to, with such naive consideration, was nothing more than the ranting of a complete madman. What a waste of time! It was then that Coliqueo proffered his final sentence from on high:
“The duck’s egg is the most effective of all.”
“I need to get some air. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
Clarke stood up.
“Yes, off you go. We’ll meet later. Think it over.”
Clarke left the tent taking great gulps of air. Nobody likes to be made a fool of, especially when faced with the demanding jury represented by the inner scruples of an Englishman with a good education. Together with the air, Clarke sucked in all the images around him, to clear his mind. The Voroga camp seemed less miserable than it had that morning. The blue of the afternoon sky, the children’s cries, the constant to-ing and fro-ing of the loose horses, the glances of the Indian women — everything drew him back to a normality he had momentarily felt tremble beneath his feet. He walked toward the gully where they had left their troop of horses and their gear. Aristídes Ordóñez was sitting keeping watch. Clarke asked where Gauna was.
“I don’t know,” the gaucho said, “he left me to look after things, but that was a long time ago. He’s not come back, and I have to leave.”
“Yes, off you go. Many thanks.”
Clarke was left on his own. A few minutes went by, and he began to regret having come to replace Ordóñez. He was stuck there now until nightfall, because there was little hope that Gauna and Carlos would interrupt whatever they were doing to come and see if he needed them. And if he so much as budged, everything would be stolen, down to their stirrups. He decided at least to enjoy his solitude. He lit his pipe, and began to smoke staring at the river, which flowed past beneath him. It was a small, treeless stream; the little water it contained was far from clean. At the top of the riverbank lay the untidy assortment of tents. Many of the Indians had come out like him to enjoy the fresh air. The Vorogas looked exactly the same as the Huilliches, except that they spoke a different language; once out of earshot, this distinguishing feature naturally disappeared. And yet it was still there. Since in reality nothing is imperceptible, thought Clarke, the difference was absolute, and involved their entire appearance. And the difference could be summed up by saying that in Salinas Grandes the Indians lived outside life, whereas here they were inside it. He had landed directly in the realm of fable, which he had taken to be real; now he had to get used to the idea that this fable was merely an island in the ocean of normal life. Plebeian and westernized, the Vorogas were a reminder of the ordinary things in society. To be completely ordinary, all that was needed was for them to work. Of course, there was no danger of them making that sacrifice, not even for aesthetic reasons.
Something in the river caught his attention. Something whitish was floating downstream at the leisurely pace of the murky current. He found himself unable to tear his gaze from the undulations of this large, soft object. It was only when it passed in front of him that he realized what it was: a man’s shirt, its arms slowly waving almost as if it were filled with a drowning body. It drifted on down the stream and disappeared round a bend, still in the center of the current, as slowly and as inexplicably as it had appeared. Clarke wondered if it might not be a passive kind of washing, by distance rather than by scrubbing.
His thoughts spread to more general considerations concerning the aporias of sight. The way the Vorogas reflected current society coincided with the river current, and in both cases the idea coincided with what he had been looking at, and the time span his gaze had created. Two young Indian girls walked past him arm-in-arm, staring at him provocatively, then started whispering and giggling in a hysterical manner. A short while later, they were back; on this occasion they asked him the time, but without waiting for his answer, began to whisper and giggle again. One of them turned her head . . . they could not have been more than ten years old, but they were already behaving like experienced streetwalkers.
A dog came up to Clarke, a skinny mongrel which sniffed at him as though he were an object.
It was at this moment that Gauna appeared. He was in a hurry, and had his usual morose look on his face. When he saw Clarke sitting among their gear, he slowed down, and his face darkened still further. He sat down beside Clarke, and stared into the distance. Clarke wanted to ask him how he had met Ordóñez, but did not have time: Gauna came straight to the point:
“We’re wasting our time, don’t you think?”
A thousand ingenious and philosophically intriguing responses flashed through Clarke’s mind, but something told him it would be better not to risk any of them. He had found that this kind of reply only took the conversation away from what really mattered. What had come to seem most important, given all the philosophically intriguing events that had happened to him, was the need for action. He was therefore willing to hear what the gaucho had to say, because he sensed that thanks to him they might finally begin to act. And indeed it was on this point that Gauna, without seeming at all put out by the lack of response, now insisted:
“They could go on talking to you here for a year or two, and you’d still be stuck where you were at the start. The hare, as they say, leaps where least expected — always supposing that you’re expecting something, however little, in reality. And you’re looking for a hare, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Gauna.”
“You’ll be surprised to hear that I am too.”
“Yes? You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask. You were so busy chewing the fat with the kid that my intentions were never mentioned.”
“That’s easily put rig
ht. As I’ve said often that it’s become second nature to me: I’m all ears.”
“But we’ve had more than enough talk! What I’m suggesting is that we leave here today, right now.”
“Heading where?”
“Heading after the Widow. I’ve found out that she’s close by, three or four days’ ride to the southeast, no more. She came through near here less than a week ago, and apparently she was in no hurry.”
“Coliqueo told me something of the sort. I agree it’s probably true — but what’s so important about the Widow that we should go in search of her? I don’t think she kidnapped Cafulcurá.”
“Nobody has ever believed that.”
“But Mallén . . .”
“You’re so naive! You’ve swallowed everything you’ve been told, without exception. And then you say you don’t believe in God!”
Now it was Gauna’s turn to bring in philosophy. Clarke deliberately did not follow him down that track:
“Well then?”
“The Widow has got the Hare. Or will be getting it in the next few days. It’s as simple as that.”
(Clarke supplied the capital “H” in his own mind, and could have sworn it was there in reality.)
“Explain yourself, I beg you.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I can believe anything, as you’ve said. But I prefer to know what it is I am believing in.”
“It’s not something that can be explained in a couple of words. It’s a long story.”
The summer afternoon had merged into an extraordinary purple sunset. As if shot like arrows, huge flocks of parrakeets flew past toward some tall violet-colored cliffs in the far distance. Bands of dark blue began to spread above the horizon. The shadows of the two men lengthened down to the water’s edge.
“I belong to one of the families,” Gauna began, “who have most right to own land in Argentina. I am a Gauna Alvear. Does that surprise you? Vast, immeasurable estates, cattle as plentiful as the blades of grass they eat, salt meat factories, accounts in English banks, and even a decisive political role — all of this should be mine by right, were it not for the fact that unfortunate family complications have prevented it becoming a reality. That is why you have come to know me in this ragged guise of a gaucho exposed to the hazards of a tracker’s life. The entire branch of the Gauna Alvear family I belong to — the richest one — has been affected by illegitimate births. None of my grandfather’s three daughters were married; all of them had children. Throughout my childhood I thought I was the only son of a devout, melancholy woman. But this was not the case: another offspring, female this time, the fruit of as fleeting a relation of my mother’s as I myself was, had come into the world. In her case though, her father — an adventurer — had not only recognized her, but had taken her with him. It was only as an adult that I learned of the return of this half-sister of mine. She had even for a brief while been in Buenos Aires, before setting off for the interior, where she had created a very curious position for herself. A great beauty, she had seduced many idle indigenous leaders, and ended up married, apparently against her will and in payment for her dissipated life, to a chieftain called Rondeau . . .”
