by Cesar Aira
The three friends, who were about to go to sleep after their dinner and tea, were also petrified. They were worried by the storm, which threatened to flood them out: they could not believe their bad luck that this should happen on the very night they had emerged into the open after their stay underground. The weeping did not so much terrify them as take them aback. The Indians were always so reserved in these matters. And the sound was such a screech, so effeminate!
“What’s that?” Carlos Alzaga Prior asked, casting uneasy glances into the shadows.
The other two did not reply. The sounds went on at a distance they found hard to judge. The fire they had lit blinded them to anything beyond it.
Then Clarke and Gauna both spoke at once, their words immediately revealing their different attitudes toward the world.
“Could it be someone wounded?” the Englishman said.
“Could it be a queer?” the gaucho said.
Both their suppositions were wide of the mark. The “ayayay” went on, seeming as though at any moment it might offer some explanation of itself. The howling wind forced its way into their perception, just as thunder began to roll slowly all around them. Everything became sinister. They could not, or would not, believe it, but the stranger was drawing closer. He must have seen the fire. The tricks the wind was playing had made it hard to tell which direction he was coming from, and they still did so. All at once there was a flash of lightning, followed by an incredible sizzling sound, and a boom that shook the earth. The lightning streak stood out quite clearly: a snaking thread that pricked the horizon. These dry rays were the worst thing imaginable. Gauna got up to cover the horses, whose manes had stood on end with electricity. The other two helped him without a word. When they touched the animals, they could feel small shocks run through their own bodies. They needed to think of covering themselves too, because huge drops of rain had started to shoot down like bullets. Still the wailing continued. Now, when they listened to it again after recovering from their shock, it sounded theatrical, unconvincing, unworthy of the moment, too private to be able to compete with a far greater fury. There was something of a call for help about it. Although none of them said as much, they felt it was a shame the lightning had not struck at what must have been a wide open mouth. Their fire began to die out, pulled by the wind into long, flickering tongues of flame. They sat without moving, waiting for something to define itself before they went to sleep. There was a rapid series of lightning flashes, and Gauna said he had spotted the stranger. He pointed out into the gloom. Then everything went dark again, and the first torrent of rain began to fall. Another flash of lightning, with another ray streaking downward, a multiple thunderclap that rolled on and on, and the others saw him too: a horseman who seemed motionless in the white glare, but then as darkness swallowed him up again, was definitely coming toward them. After one particularly loud howl, he subsided into sobs, a kind of shrill murmur. He was almost upon them. Clarke felt irritated: he was in no mood to talk, to ask questions, nothing. The rain was already soaking his head. The stranger was right next to them now, and by the dying glow of the sputtering fire they were astounded to see that it was none other than Mallén, Cafulcurá’s favorite shaman.
“Mallén, what are you doing here?” Clarke exclaimed, without even thinking to help him from his horse.
A faint polite squint flitted behind the Indian’s tears as he dismounted.
“Do you think we could heat some water to make him tea?” Clarke asked Gauna.
“That’d be rather difficult,” the gaucho deigned to reply, staring down sarcastically at the puddle where their fire had been.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mallén said, choking back his tears, “I’ve already eaten. All I want to do now is die.”
So Clarke would have to talk anyway. Around them the darkness was complete, but the frequent flashes of lightning allowed them occasionally to glimpse each other’s faces. The Indian sat down, and Clarke went over until he was almost touching him, since otherwise the noise of the pouring rain would have made it impossible for them to hear each other. After throwing a blanket across Mallén’s sunken shoulders, Carlos did the same. Gauna on the other hand wished them all goodnight, wrapped himself in his poncho and settled down to sleep. This lack of curiosity was entirely typical of him.
“My surprise,” Clarke began, “comes not only at seeing you so far from Salinas Grandes, but at the state you’re in. I take it for granted there’s bad news: but what exactly?”
“Ah, Mister Clarke, a great misfortune has befallen our people, the worst misfortune. The worst, the worst.”
“Have they all killed each other?”
“Don’t worry, it will soon come to that.” A loud sigh. Although usually so talkative, Mallén now seemed unwilling to speak. His dejection sealed his lips. They had to drag the words out of him. The external circumstances (the soaking they were getting, the claps of thunder, the cold) were partly responsible, but Mallén himself was more to blame, and eventually Clarke became
impatient.
“Come on man, spit it out. If you don’t, how can I find out what’s wrong? Start from when we left. What happened then?”
“Nothing.”
“How interesting. Didn’t your chieftain reappear?”
“What d’you think?”
“Nor Namuncurá?”
“No sign at all. Not even Alvarito came back.”
“We were in Coliqueo’s camp when . . .”
“Ah, yes. That too. Unfortunately Juana Pitiley also vanished, and she’s the only one with enough authority to prevent that kind of rashness.”
“So then you’re more or less leaderless.”
“Aha.”
“Did you agree to a truce with Coliqueo at least?”
“Yes, but that treacherous rat is already preparing to break his word.”
“How do you know?”
“What else would he do? All he has to do is think: ‘So then they’re more or less leaderless.’ . . .”
He imitated Clarke’s accent perfectly, but the Englishman decided not to take offense.
“I can’t believe it.”
“He’s rounding up all the warriors he can lay hands on.”
“Well, at any rate you can make a stand against him, and successfully, I’m sure.”
“What with? Farts?”
This vulgarity was so unusual in the polite shaman that it gave Clarke pause for thought. How fragile the Mapuche make-up must be, to disintegrate into such unpleasantness at the first
obstacle!
“But I suppose you’re also recruiting your friends. Cafulcurá’s network of alliances can’t break down just because he has temporarily disappeared.”
Mallén gave another deep sigh, swallowing a mouthful of rain in the process, and made a visible effort to go on speaking:
“Yes, that was our idea. That was the reason for my journey, and I’m not the only one who set out. But everywhere it seems misfortunes have been leaping out at me like hares, so how could I not be depressed? My son, who was accompanying me, turned back with the excuse that he had other business to attend to, all my string of horses except this one met with accidents, and to top it all, I lost my knife and bolas somewhere and can’t find them.”
However hard he tried, Carlos could not contain his laughter.
“Go on, laugh,” said Mallén. “But it is sad. Another time, I might have laughed as well. This afternoon, when I saw it was going to rain, I began to seriously ask myself: ‘What for? What am I doing all this for? What am I living for?’ ”
He could not go on. Clarke snorted nervously. He could understand the shaman’s reasons: he himself always found complications unnecessary, and thought simplicity should always prevail in life: otherwise, it really was not worth living. But at the same time, he was astonished at the shallowness of this man who quite possibly held the future of an empire in his hands, but who could allow such trivial external circumstances as a rainstorm to weaken his reso
lve. It was a truly breathtaking lack of responsibility. He tried to tell him as much without hurting his feelings. Of course, Mallén did not even want to listen. And since the storm was getting ever stronger, and the chattering of their teeth was becoming unbearable, they left the rest of their discussion for the light of day, rolled themselves in whatever ponchos they could find, and shut their eyes to try to sleep.
In spite of the wet, they managed to do so, and for more than a few hours. The next morning was still cloudy, with occasional drizzle, but they succeeded in lighting a fire thanks to a handful of the excellent coal the chief of the underground world had given them, roasted two chickens Mallén had brought, and made some tea, so that when they returned to the subject they were different men. Even the shaman, perhaps out of embarrassment, seemed more reasonable.
“Where were you headed,” Clarke asked him, “before your . . . depression?”
“To Colqán’s camp.”
“To seek reinforcements, I suppose.”
“To activate the offensive-defensive alliance we have with him, which is something different.”
“That’s the way to talk!”
“But they could just as well give me a kick up the backside.”
“Don’t let yourself give in to negative thoughts again. Why would they do that? Isn’t it in their interests as well to fight against Coliqueo?”
“How should I know! They may have made a separate peace with him.”
“That’s taking pessimism too far. We’ll go with you to see Colqán. You sent emissaries to your other allies as well, didn’t you?”
Mallén’s explanations took on a technical slant. Given the complicated nature of the Mapuche confederation’s politics, it could scarcely be otherwise. Although Carlos lost interest (Gauna had never had any), Clarke himself became more and more identified with the problem. Even the shaman roused himself, and became his old self. They had left the metaphysics of simplicity they had touched on the previous night far behind, but the Englishman found he did not regret it. Being based on a semblance of psychology (everyone not only admitted this, but took it as their starting point) the complexities of politics were resolved in a second process of simplification, this time a childish one.
When the rain came on heavily again, they set off. Before they did so, Gauna took Clarke to one side: he wasn’t thinking of getting mixed up in this idiotic conflict, was he? That wasn’t why they were there.
“And why are we here, Mister Gauna, if you would be so kind as to tell me?”
His Englishness came effortlessly to the fore. The gaucho did not insist. His story was falling to pieces: what was real was war, and his diamantine fantasies were relegated to the limbo they should never have left. As for the question of committing himself; Clarke felt as light as the breeze. He could take part in a war as easily as he might play a game of whist. He was aware that Coliqueo would do his utmost to enlist his white allies in the campaign against the Huilliches. But to the white man, an Indian was always an Indian, and deep down they did not care who won. He did not care much either, but this only fueled his enthusiasm: this opportunity to closely observe a war between abstract peoples was too good to miss. And anyway, it made him feel good, and that was enough for him.
So he mounted Repetido, got into step with Mallén’s horse, and the two of them rode off together, talking the whole while about numbers, positions, distances, forces, deterrents and so on. Feeling himself left out, Carlos showed his displeasure by riding ahead to join Gauna.
They had hardly gone four or five leagues when they were surprised to find they had reached their destination.
About a thousand warriors had camped by a creek, making shelters under the tree branches until the rain eased off. Mallén recognized who it was from afar.
“They’re Manful’s men,” he said. Manful was another of the allies sought out by emissaries who had obviously proved more effective than him. “Mister Clarke, before we arrive, I’d like to ask a great favor of you.”
Clarke knew what he meant: that he should not mention Mallén’s moment of weakness. He reassured him politely in a roundabout way. A quarter of an hour later, they were sitting opposite Manful himself; sheltered by oilskins and with the warmth of a fire, discussing strategies as if they had never done anything else. Manful was keen to fight; he had brought a large supply of cows and gallons of liquor, which his troops were busy consuming as though the world might come to an end at any minute. He had also done something else, which he begged Mallén to forgive him for: he had sent a delegation to quickly inform Colqán of what was happening, so all they had to do was to wait for him.
“Yes,” said Clarke, “as we were arriving we saw a small group of riders heading out. I suppose that was them.”
“No,” Mallén replied, staring after them. “Colqán lives in another direction, and my men left last night. The ones you saw, and who can still be seen — can you make them out? — are nothing to do with us.”
They all looked: the group, made up of about twenty riders, was a dark stain on the rainswept horizon. The chieftain’s next words took them by surprise:
“That’s Rondeau’s Widow.”
Their eyes immediately became telescopes, though without the lenses; that is, they could not see any further or more clearly, but they did focus more closely: Gauna for his own reasons, and Clarke without knowing exactly why — from contagion, he supposed. Or for no reason at all. What he saw was an incomparable vision. That woman, whose existence he had been unaware of only a month before, had in such a short time become an integral part of his imagination. What if she really were Gauna’s half-sister? He glanced sideways at the gaucho: he sat there in suspense, holding his breath, his eyes starting from his head. There was no hatred in his look, not even greed, but simply a thirst for adventure and knowledge which gave him a noble look despite his ugliness. Clarke had never perceived so clearly the need for the novelesque in life: it was the only truly useful thing, precisely because it lent weight to the uselessness of everything. Clarke turned to Manful:
“Why did you let her go just like that? Isn’t she a Voroga?”
Mallén wanted to say something, but the chieftain got in before him:
“We are Vorogas as well.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Our loyalties don’t follow strictly ethnic lines. There are a lot of crossovers. Anyway, she isn’t strictly speaking a Voroga, and she’s a sworn enemy of Coliqueo’s.”
“Where is she going?”
“She promised to join us in a few days, when she has assembled her subjects, who at the moment are all scattered.”
This reassured Gauna.
“Now to our own business,” Clarke said, by this time completely enthused by the preparations for war. A lovely rainbow was painted on the sky, even though it was still raining and there was no sign of the sun. They unfolded their maps.
10: Preparing for War
From that moment on, events gained momentum. The allies soon made their appearance. They all began to exist in a kind of perpetual symmetry, with emissaries coming and going the whole time. It was what the Indians most enjoyed, but only when they were about to go to war. In fact, it could almost be said that they used war as an excuse for them to find out instantly where the others were, what they were proposing, what direction they were heading in, at what speed, and so on. Not because they were really interested. The curious thing was that all these inquiries canceled themselves out as soon as they were embarked upon: by calculating the distances, they abolished them; by emphasizing the relative dispositions for movement as lines in a past crashing into the present, they put them all on the same plane of events, that of the flat pampas. They were not concerned whether something was near or far: an Indian would leap on to his horse to ride one league or a hundred. And they rode quickly, there was no doubt about that. At first Clarke thought they were pretending, not so much to deceive him as just for fun: from where they were to Salinas Grandes it mu
st have been at least three hundred miles: and from one day to the next, a messenger traveled there and back, covering a distance that normally took two weeks. Yet they really did it: thanks to an ingenious system enabling the riders to snatch refreshment, and their mounts to rest and recuperate . . . and above all, thanks to their knowledge of certain hills and viewpoints. What they succeeded in neutralizing in this way was precisely what they knew as if it were part of their own flesh and blood. Except that these Indians, in other words all Indians, did not seem to be made of flesh and blood but rather to be small, frantic machines. The sum of their passions unleashed or added together came to nothing, was simply a mechanical operation. Clarke found himself astonished at this paradox: inhuman as he was, he had thought when he first glimpsed the indigenous ways that he was approaching the truly human; but the more he became acquainted with them, the more he realized they were exactly the same as him. It was true that they could love, but had not he himself been in love? Although they did not so much resemble his past as an echo of it in the present. It was only now in the tumult of imminent combat that their starkest truth was revealed: a desire to leave and a reality of desire, a distancing by means of which the real both showed itself and at the same time vanished. The news from Salinas Grandes was reassuring: the break-up had been avoided, and some five thousand warriors were ready to leave at any moment, as soon as they knew when and in which direction. The creek where the three friends were camped, and which Carlos Alzaga Prior had baptized the Rainy One, became the nerve center for collecting and dispatching information. Two or three days were spent in this, during which time it never once stopped raining or drizzling. Truly this was a different landscape. Water everywhere, and everything gray; it was hard to recognize the pampa. Their situation had changed as well. Colqán arrived with his splendid warriors; two more chieftains also appeared, so that the numbers in the camp swelled, making it seem like one long wild party. They ate, drank, sent and received messages all day and night, as if they were in a transparent telegrapher’s cabin. Spying was also commonplace: everyone was a spy, and it was impossible to tell if information came from allies or from their enemies. Coliqueo seemed to be fully committed as leader of the revolt. Clarke began to suspect that there were chieftains who were in contact with both sides; he had no concrete reasons for thinking so, but it occurred to him that nothing could have been easier, since it was nothing more than a matter of words shouted in the distance; without being cynical, he himself would have felt a natural impulse to keep in with everyone. Even among the leadership there was a sense of ambiguity. For example, they made as if they did not take Coliqueo seriously, laughed at him, saw him as the palest of phantoms of a true threat. But they had no choice. Were it not for the fact that Cafulcurá’s disappearance was the cause of all this, it could have been seen as the reason for their uncertainty. Now he had disappeared, it was as if the opposing forces were inevitably drawn toward an empty zone.
