by Cesar Aira
“Of course she recognized me! She told me she had spent the whole time thinking of me. She’s entranced by me.”
Clarke thought better of reminding the boy that it was he who had not seemed so faithful. At that point, Gauna arrived.
“Well, was it her?”
“Yes. She is my sister. She told me she had brought the girl here because your mother, Clarke, had asked her to, in order to conceal the twins she was about to give birth to . . .”
“Yes, we’ve already heard that,” Clarke butted in, not wanting to go into detail in front of Carlos. “What about the diamond?”
“She told me it didn’t exist.”
“And you believed her?”
“I’m afraid I had no choice.”
This sounded odd to the Englishman, coming as it did from someone normally so suspicious as Gauna. But he could see something had made a great impression on the gaucho, which was probably the reason for his strange meekness. Carlos must have dimly felt the same, to judge by the question he asked:
“Is she pretty?”
Gauna took time before he replied, in the hushed voice of a threatened conspirator:
“I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”
“So what does it matter that the stone doesn’t exist!” Carlos exclaimed. “Look at all we’ve discovered anyway! Clarke’s found his mother, which is the most important thing; I’ve found Yñuy; you, your sister. It’s more than we could ever have hoped for, always supposing we were hoping for something.”
“That’s true.”
“But we have to meet this great beauty,” the boy gushed. “You’ll introduce us to her, won’t you, Gauna?”
“Oh, I was forgetting,” the gaucho said, giving himself the classic slap on the forehead. “She asked to meet you. Come on.”
As they got up, they were surprised to find that the darkness was lifting. The faintest of glimmers had spread through the night, and at this first instant of what soon afterward became nothing more than the sad gray of dawn, all the shadows had taken on a transparent quality. It was still night, but it was also day, and at the same time was neither one nor the other.
“Here she comes,” Gauna remarked before they had gone more than a few steps. They looked up. The path rose in a steep track that must have been made by deer. A lone woman was coming down toward them. They waited for her. In this half-light that did not dispel the darkness but still allowed them to see, the Widow seemed to them almost painfully beautiful. They stood there with their mouths wide open. She looked up and also stopped, searching out Clarke’s face. There was a moment of mystery, and then one of those “serious smiles,” such as a man sees only a few times in his life spread across her face. Her gaze showed a confidence, an acceptance that were totally absent from Clarke’s features, which were a picture of horror and misery. His heart had finally failed him. He felt that the whole of his past life was rushing uncontrollably to this moment, to this instant which because it was too close and too enormous, risked escaping, risked crushing him.
“Rossanna . . .”
“Tom . . .”
“Am I dreaming?”
“No.”
“But . . . weren’t you dead? In the glacier?”
“No. I escaped. There was a flash of lightning — I don’t know if you saw it — the ice I was imprisoned in shattered and melted . . . the next day, some Indians rescued me . . .”
“I can’t believe it! It’s not possible!”
“Tom . . . it’s me.”
“Rossanna . . . How? . . . How are you?” A stupid question, but he found it hard to think.
“You’re exactly the same.”
“So are you. You’re more, much more . . .”
“More the same?”
“More beautiful.”
“I’m not young anymore.”
“Yes you are!” Clarke said, raising his voice from the level of a stuttering mumble for the first time. But then at once he returned to a whisper: “Did you . . . did you remember me?”
“What about you?”
“The whole time.”
“Still?”
“Yes, yes, always!”
He was sincere, there could be no doubting that. They came toward each other and linked hands, still staring into each other’s eyes. They were in their own little bubble; the world had ceased to exist for them. Carlos, who had been watching the scene with the most passionate attention, exchanged radiant glances with Gauna, and was beside himself with the desire to join in.
“Clarke, Clarke . . .” he hissed. “Señora . . .”
She turned to him with a gentle smile:
“You’re the one who’s in love with the girl, aren’t you?”
“I can vouch for the fact that Clarke, who’s my best friend, is still in love with you. . . . There’s no other woman for him. . . .”
Clarke did not bother to shut him up because he did not even hear him. Rossanna turned to look at him again:
“When you looked at me just now I saw in your eyes exactly the same gaze as on that fateful day when I was trapped in the glacier. . . .”
“You mean you saw me then?”
“Of course I did.”
“You saw me?”
The horror came flooding back. Clarke had survived all these years absolutely convinced that he had seen her dead, and now it turned out that not only was this untrue, but that she had seen him looking at her. It seemed to him that the whole of his life (and this was the real revelation) had been impregnated with a diffuse, usually repressed terror. It was then, and only then, that love — an overpowering, immense love — was rekindled in him; love for this woman who was more beautiful than anything, the love of his life. Clarke thought that this was the first time he had ever truly loved; what had come before was fantasy, youth, nostalgia; what he felt now was genuine and lasting. Relieved, he turned toward Carlos, who was gazing transfixed at the transformation of his friend’s features. He was about to say something, anything, to him when they heard the sound of laughter.
It was Juana Pitiley, surrounded by several people who were staring at something with great curiosity. She came over to them, and they could see she was carrying two babies, one in each arm.
“Two girls,” she said.
The babies, wrapped in clean white cloths, were tiny and perfectly formed, like two little dolls. They all stared at them enchanted for a few moments.
“What a remarkable proliferation of twins,” said Clarke.
“I’m delighted they’re girls,” Juana Pitiley said. “It’s as though a curse were finally being lifted.”
Rossanna, her arm linked through Clarke’s, said to him:
“There’s something you should know, Tom, and now seems to be the right moment. When we two were separated fifteen years ago, I was pregnant. At the time I hadn’t told you because I was waiting for the right opportunity, which never came. And I also had twins, a boy and a girl.”
“No!”
“It’s as though we all belonged to the same family.”
“But we do! This lady has just told me I’m her son.”
Perplexed, Rossanna looked toward Juana Pitiley, and saw the confirmation of Clarke’s words on her face. She murmured:
“That explains how similar you look to Namuncurá, my constant suitor.”
“Yes, we’re twins too. But why did you never say yes to him?”
A “serious smile” was her only reply.
“And those children?” Clarke was anxious to know. “Our children? What became of them?”
“You may find it hard to forgive me, but I gave them up for adoption almost as soon as they were born. I gave the girl to some Mapuches from Saliqueló, and the boy to a cousin of mine in Buenos Aires, Susana Prior.”
At first, Clarke did not make the connection, but the shout of joy from Carlos soon forced him to do so:
“Susana Prior is my adoptive mother! It’s me! It had to be me, Clarke!”
Rossanna, whose
aristocratic reserve stood in such stark contrast to the hysterical enthusiasm of this alleged son of hers, asked him:
“Are you sure? I know Susana adopted other children. . . .”
“No, it’s me! My heart tells me so!”
He was laughing and crying at the same time. Clarke felt a wave of laughter welling up inside his own chest.
“Well, anyway,” Rossanna said, “it would be easy enough to prove it, because my twins had a birthmark, in the shape of a tiny hare, on their butt . . .”
“Here it is! Here it is! What did I tell you, Clarke, I mean
father!”
Without the slightest regard for convention, Carlos turned round and pulled his trousers down. He was so nervous and fumbled so much he snapped his belt. But it was true, in the center of his right buttock he had a long birthmark that looked like a hare in flight. When he turned round to them again, his face was red and wet from tears. He could not speak. Clarke took him into his arms to console him.
“I saw a birthmark just like that,” said Juana Pitiley, “on Yñuy when she was giving birth.”
“Yñuy?” everyone said. Carlos raised his head from his father’s shoulder.
“Where did you say you had your baby girl adopted?” Juana Pitiley asked Rossanna.
“In Saliqueló.”
“Well, Yñuy and her family arrived in Salinas Grandes from Saliqueló a few years ago!”
“So there’s no doubt it’s her.”
“So then . . . Yñuy is my sister!”
“Yes, your sister . . .” Clarke said. “Tell me, you didn’t . . . did you?”
“No, don’t worry,” Carlos replied, smiling through his tears. “You’re always the same, aren’t you? You can relax, there was no incest.”
Rossanna was smiling at him.
“I’m going to tell her!” Carlos exclaimed.
“Not now,” Juana Pitiley said, holding him back. “She’s asleep. We’ll tell her when she wakes up.”
“These little girls are our grandchildren,” Clarke said to
Rossanna.
“I told you I wasn’t so young.”
“And they’re my great-grandchildren,” said Juana Pitiley.
“Clarke, father, I think I’ll die, I’m so happy!” Carlos roared. “I knew it all the time: you had to be my father . . .”
“Don’t forget that this is your mother.”
“It’s true! So I was in the glacier as well!”
“That wasn’t what I meant. Didn’t you say that if you ever met your mother, you’d throw yourself in her arms, and all that kind of thing?”
Carlos shyly evaded Rossanna’s smiling face.
“Now that I know I’m your son, a certain British reserve . . .”
“In fact, you’re more English than I am, thanks to the blood of poor Professor Haussmann.” Clarke saw the moment had arrived to say something which would not only delight the boy, but was also true: “I have to admit that if I had been asked how I would like my son to be, I would have said like you.”
“That goes without saying,” Carlos responded at once, sincerely convinced of it.
They were all sitting round in a circle. The light had grown stronger. Suddenly Carlos thought of something:
“So that means Gauna is my uncle! Come and give me a hug, uncle. Gauna, you’re going to have to be nice to me from now on.”
“Whatever will he think of next?” said his father.
“How about having some breakfast?” Rossanna asked.
“Wait a moment,” Juana Pitiley said. “I think the sun is about to rise, and perhaps my son, my delightful grandson and Mister Gauna would like to see it through the Ventana, just as I did when all this began.”
They agreed and everyone set off, leaving the babies in the care of an old Indian woman. They were already only a short distance from the summit. It took them no time at all to reach the Ventana itself, which was a fairly large window-like hole in the topmost rock. They climbed up, picking their way through huge boulders. There was no wind, which could have made the spot unpleasant. As Clarke reached the top, a huge orange sun was rising, exactly opposite him on the eastern horizon, which seemed not nearly so far away as when they were out on the plain. Gauna pointed downward: among the shadows on the prairie at the foot of the mountain, their horses had scattered far and wide. Clarke looked for Repetido. When he found him, the horse was standing with its head lifted nervously. Then he saw it dart off in an unlikely gallop toward the rising sun.
“Where’s he going?” Clarke asked in alarm. The others also gazed after the horse, half-closing their eyes against the bright glow the animal was running toward. And they were all equally shocked when they saw the silhouette of a rider appear on the horizon line.
“The Wanderer! Repetido’s got tired of only seeing him in the distance as well!”
But it was not mere curiosity on the horse’s part. The Wanderer’s horse was another Repetido, and suddenly the two of them reared on to their hind legs with exactly the same movement, standing poised for an instant like two chess knights. And then it was as if the page of the world were finally turned, and the Wanderer was on this side, and they saw him coming to meet them. They all recognized him at the same instant: it was Cafulcurá.
Juana Pitiley roared with laughter.
PRINGLES, 6 SEPTEMBER 1996
Copyright © 1991 by César Aira
Translation copyright © 1998 by Nick Caistor
Copyright © 2013 by New Directions
First published in Spanish as La Liebre by Emecé, Buenos Aires
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
First published as a New Directions Paperbook Original (NDP1257) in 2013
Design by Erik Rieselbach
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Aira, César, 1949–
[Liebre. English]
The hare / César Aira ; Translated by Nick Caistor.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-811-22120-7 (e-book)
I. Title.
PQ7798.1.I7L513 2013
863′64—dc23
2013003580
New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin
by New Directions Publishing Corporation
80 Eighth Avenue, New York, NY 10011
ALSO BY CÉSAR AIRA FROM NEW DIRECTIONS
An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter
Ghosts
How I Became a Nun
The Literary Conference
The Miracle Cures of Dr. Aira
The Seamstress and the Wind
Varamo
