Land of Smoke

by Sara Gallardo

  At daybreak, she saw the window. She saw it gave onto a colonnaded pavement where scraps of papers flew about. On the table, the cheese, the bottle; the floor stained by the spirits. Then she saw her brother on the trunk. She saw his muscles, as alien to the body she had known as the line of the mouth was to its former shape. They once again hurtled themselves over one another.

  On the dirty pillow, two heads like pearls argue.

  I was faithful. And you married?

  I was faithful. With what women did you lose yourself?

  They ate on that table. Now they could look into each other’s eyes.

  There was a time when they’d been called the twins of sun and moon, since they’d looked almost the same. Now he stooped to eat, his nails encrusted in black; he accompanied his meal with spirits.

  The two had arrived the day before, she from Copenhagen and he from the south. (He pointed vaguely with his knife.) Seven years. He insulted her; seven years without looking for him. His hands trembled on the table. She leaned forward, bathed them with her tears.

  After wrapping up the leftovers of the meal, he went towards the trunk, which had a complicated lock. When the lid hit the wall she saw some rags, which he removed. The trunk was full of gold.

  *

  On the king’s birthday, the Danish ambassador gives a reception for the whole collective. From the corner she occupied every year with her husband, the pastor’s wife saw a man on the balcony dressed in black tie, just like all the others who went afterwards to the opera. When the ambassador spoke with him he abandoned his nonchalant attitude, and one could see they were friends. Afterwards, he leaned back again.

  The pastor’s wife crossed the salon and asked if he was Eric Gunnardsen, the son of Eric Gunnardsen. She could barely get the words out. He replied that he was. His abruptness was not benevolent but his beauty impressed her, and so she continued her effort: she wanted to know if his sister had found him. The response took a moment to come: yes, she had. Good, then she wished for them both to know she was ready to follow them wherever they liked. All they had to do was let her know at the church.

  You’ll have your chance, madam, at 10 a.m. on 10th March, at the railway station where the train to Entre Ríos departs, he said. He noticed the pastor approaching, and he added, raising his voice, ‘Of course, you will have to bring the church harmonium with you.’

  Once he had been introduced, the pastor asked the man about his sister. In Denmark with her husband, also in Italy buying statues. This said, Gunnardsen looked at his watch, bowed briefly, and went to say goodbye to his friend.

  On 10th March it rained. The rain began at four, when the pastor’s wife left her necklace and the money she’d saved up to visit Denmark on the table. She went out and opened the gate.

  At the station she waited without moving. At ten she dared begin to walk, and made an appearance at the bar.

  At a table surrounded by men were Eric Gunnardsen and his sister. A pile of big photographs sat beside the cup he was drinking from. Steam rose off raincoats, umbrellas trickled puddles on the floor.

  Standing next to the table, the pastor’s wife could see they were shots of the same building, park and gate. One of the men was handed photos of ironwork, another, shots of windows, the third, views of the garden. There were pictures of interiors with wall hangings piled up in front of an old man who repeated several times that he was not a magician but an antiquarian, without anyone smiling. The main conversation was carried out in Italian, with a man who appeared to be an architect.

  The woman lifted her eyes and looked at the pastor’s wife without recognising her. A question from her brother distracted her.

  ‘What door is this?’

  ‘It’s new, just put in last summer.’ He tore up the photos in anger, threw the pieces on the ground. ‘I asked you to reproduce everything exactly,’ he said to the architect. ‘Balustrade by balustrade, fountain by fountain, tree by tree.’

  He too lifted his eyes to the pastor’s wife, failed to recognise her. She stuttered in her language. ‘The king’s birthday. I’ve brought the harmonium.’ He seemed not to understand. Suddenly he leaned back and let out a guffaw.

  The pastor’s wife understood: it had been a joke. But she felt happy because he was laughing.

  In the train, the sister went to bed. To protect the siblings from the waiter’s intrusion, the pastor’s wife received the dishes. Eric Gunnardsen sat at his sister’s feet. So the pastor’s wife wouldn’t understand them, or maybe out of habit, they spoke in Italian. She did understand a bit, though.

  The sister had arrived that morning. The sleeping compartments were crammed by her trunks. The pastor’s wife had had to open one of them to exchange the railway company’s linen for fresh sheets, to extract the pillow covered in satin as opalescent as the shoulders which rested on it.

  In her student days, the pastor’s wife had once seen in a museum some cutlery made of gold and mother-of-pearl. She felt a sort of kinship between that cutlery and Eric Gunnardsen. Except for one thing, something like the feeling one gets when holding a fish-hook: a regret.

  ‘How are they all doing there?’ he asked with a mocking smile.

  She described a ceremony. Beneath the pines there had been an altar, and there had been fruit garlands on the doors. Their poor first cousin had been so ugly in her red ringlets and tulle veil.

  ‘How touching,’ he said. ‘Just like your wedding.’

  The pastor’s wife noticed the blushing against the satin pillow.

  No, muttered the sister; she had been married in Copenhagen.

  She rushed to continue.

  A story spread about that cousin’s garden wedding. People in town said they saw our parents in marvellous finery. Eric Gunnardsen sat up straight. Why was she talking about that? Did something or someone remain in that house or park that could matter to them? Who were they going to leave the tomb for? The aunt, the cousins? What an idiotic story. How dare she repeat it.

  Another conversation referred to a certain dog, Tiger. She should have dug him up, he said. She should have brought him here, bone by bone, tooth by tooth. Hadn’t he howled in the early morning of his departure until all the windows were opened? Hadn’t he died an hour later? Anyway, he had shown more feeling than she had, oh yes, some more indeed. I only did it to save tears, she said, and they started to fall. The pastor’s wife stayed outside. She saw Eric Gunnardsen kneel, turn out the light, close the door.

  While construction lasted they lived in a house on the slope overlooking the river. Camps were set up for builders, gardeners, farmhands. Ships slowed their progress so passengers could watch the work. Eric Gunnardsen ordered adult trees bought, transported with giant blocks of earth at the roots. Some died and he replaced them with younger samples. At night he rose to watch over them.

  At the railway station he sent back a hundred stair steps, saying he didn’t want new marble. Moss-covered tiles arrived, bought from demolitions. He wrapped vines on the balconies before the work was ready, protecting them with tarps that gave everything the look of a ship.

  A park surrounded the house. A railing surrounded the park.

  The siblings spent hours on horseback. They went fishing; they returned from the jetty climbing the terraces between stone lions. From what the pastor’s wife thought she could understand, they always spoke to one another of a certain past, a certain people.

  One rainy morning she missed the pastor. She tried to sing some hymns but could not. She heard the steps of a horse on the stones. Eric Gunnardsen was looking at her through the barred window, his hair wet. Those were the months she found frightening, the months the sister was away in Denmark.

  He dismounted, entered, sat at the harmonium, poked fun at the hymns. He forced her to remember old songs, songs from her wet nurse. She sang with a deep voice she hadn’t used for years. He sang along softly. A smile began to form on his lips. She watched the curve appear like a rainbow in a rainy twilight, trying not to breathe so
it would not disappear.

  At night Eric Gunnardsen walked from room to room. The servants saw him turn on the light in the windows, and saw him on the balconies, sitting on the balustrade of the rooftop terrace with a bottle in hand. No one wanted to be the one to deliver his sister’s letters. Some he tore without opening, and the wind carried away the pieces.

  When she returned, things became calmer. The walks began again, the embraces beneath the trees.

  On 23rd March 1926 the ambassador had the pleasure of ascending the deck of the most luxurious transatlantic liner of the period, preceded by his secretary. Sitting in the salon, he waited.

  It pleased him to reply to his old friend Eric Gunnardsen, to carry out a task and accept an invitation. He was old and he loved music; he observed humanity, admired beautiful women. He observed, without pleasure but with interest, the grey-haired woman who stepped over the ground as if each splinter of wood had been created for her; he considered her husband, with his too-new clothes, for whose speeches in Parliament he felt contempt. He cast a sweeping glance at the arrangement of a red-headed daughter with a thick waist followed by a lethargic young husband and two tall brothers. Eric’s uncles and cousins. The full stream of his liking went to the conservator of the collections of medals and coins of the realm and his wife, whom he knew because she was Eric Gunnardsen’s sister. Three cars from the embassy awaited.

  He had selected a boat from the river fleet for his friend’s guest; it had seemed pleasant to him. He did not regret his choice. But the people he preferred made themselves scarce; the numismatist and his wife kept to their berth. There was no shortage of conversational topics. The grey-haired woman interrogated him about the life and personality of his brother’s son. Did he still play the piano better than anyone? Did he compose? The ambassador discovered he didn’t know much.

  One evening he saw the one he had hoped to see more regularly at the dining table approach. When he greeted her, he commented on the appearance of the river, un usual for the time of year. She followed his gaze, seemed to remember something. She told him of the mountain of trash in front of the church, and the wind that swept away the scraps without anyone thinking of looking for them. ‘What sort of lands are these?’ she asked.

  The ambassador thought a while, distracted by the shape of the hand by his side. Then he said, ‘Maybe they are a place where souls can still fly.’

  ‘Or lose themselves,’ said a voice. It was the grey-haired woman.

  A high bright light illuminated Eric Gunnardsen from behind when he welcomed his guests. The ambassador noticed a hush had fallen. The brother-in-law broke it with a laugh. Was he dreaming? – he asked – Was this house not another house, this park another park? Why not? – Eric led them to the terrace, the moon was on the river. Everything in the north can also be in the south, except in the south the water turns the opposite direction in the drains, the waxing moon seems to wane and autumn is sweeter than spring.

  The member of Parliament said with a stridulous voice that those waters came from a river, not a lake. True, admitted Eric Gunnardsen, and that is an advantage: the lake keeps but the river erases. Just like the jungle. He pointed: ‘As soon as we allow it to, it will cover the railings and the statues.’

  The pastor’s wife kept away from the visitors. During the ambassador’s stays she didn’t even go out of her room to eat. But that night she followed them from door to door. Her boss had behaved in an unusual manner, watching over the meals and the drinks, choosing flowers for the table. He had also delivered a packet to her wrapped in newspaper, telling her to open it the next day. She still had it in her hands. It was heavy.

  The light fell fully onto the head of Eric Gunnardsen, and onto the head of the numismatist. They eyed one another. He had been looking forward to meeting him – said Eric – his sister’s man, the one who spends his life examining medals. She winced, clutched her husband’s arm. The husband was unfazed. He smiled; he had come from afar, he said, to find himself face to face with a double numismatic enigma: a house and a park that were the reverse of another house, another park; a man who was the reverse of a woman. Admirable obverses and reverses.

  Eric Gunnardsen smiled. ‘It is known,’ he said, ‘that heaven and hell form a single medal.’ Was it to be found in the collections of His Majesty? The numismatist said that he supposed they did. But to his understanding, hell was merely an attempt to copy heaven.

  The pastor’s wife leaned as far as she could; she was trying to observe the grey-haired woman, who was looking at that house, that park, with a certain trembling in her features. While bending the packet fell on her foot, a sharp pain. That convinced her to open it. It was a gold ingot.

  Eric Gunnardsen’s speech over dessert was brief. Before he started, he invited his sister to sit by his side. She obeyed with a flutter of chiffon. He gave her wine, holding the cup up to her lips. In a lower voice he invited her to look at the centre of the table. Weren’t those her favourite flowers?

  He placed the watch next to the plate. Two minutes, he promised.

  ‘A widespread belief amongst humans affirms that orphans need to receive and give affection intensely,’ he said. ‘When someone damages or disappoints that love, something dangerous happens. A soul is not a plaything, it is often said. Nor, unfortunately, is it a brush to whitewash tombs.’

  His sister leaned against him. Seeing her close her eyes the numismatist leaped to his feet. Eric Gunnardsen stopped him. One minute, he requested. Pale, he kissed her lips and her eyelids.

  ‘This woman will no longer know sadness,’ he said. ‘She is dead. Friends, cousins. One does not play with souls. I have invited you from Denmark to tell you this.’

  He took out a revolver and fired a bullet into the roof of his mouth.

  TWO SORRELS AND CO.

  THE CASTE OF THE SUN

  IN CHIVILCOY AROUND 1942, there was a woman who was consulted often. She had golden advice for lawsuits, illness, finance and thefts, and never accepted payment. People brought her eggs or lambs, sometimes homemade jam.

  She lived on the outskirts of town. One had to leave whatever means of transportation one came in parked under a pepper tree at her door.

  Her hair was tied in an enormous blonde bun, which observant people noticed was a wig.

  She attended to all troubles in a bureau of sorts. She would withdraw through a small double door, leaving her clients alone. A while later she returned with advice.

  The rumour spread that she had a spirit in her service, and her prestige increased.

  She could be seen passing in a cart drawn by a sorrel horse. To everyone’s joy, someone discovered the wig was made with hairs from the sorrel’s tail. The news travelled fast without reaching her ears.

  When she died, they dared open the small double door. It was connected to a stable, where she kept her horse.

  CRISTÓBAL THE GIANT

  CRISTÓBAL WAS as big as a tree; he was a giant. He rode a huge sorrel horse. He was from the Magdalena region. His head brushed the roof beam of his rancho and he had to duck to go through doors. On a night of revelry, before dawn, he said to everyone, ‘I wasn’t born for this. I’m going to look for a chief, the greatest that exists.’

  He mounted his horse and left everyone as the sun came out.

  He galloped seven days and nights, looking for General Quiroga, who was in command at La Rioja. At last he found him, and said, ‘Here I am, at your command, my General Quiroga.’

  ‘Good,’ said the chief. His skin was blackish, his eyes red. ‘Make a big fence from boulders like tombstones so that no enemies pass. Not on horseback, not on foot, not flying.’

  ‘I don’t know much about stones, my General. I come from Magdalena. But I’ll make that stone wall while my horse rests. And then the two of us will be ready for whatever you wish to order.’

  The sorrel didn’t like La Rioja. Not the crags, not the grasses. His hooves split open but he didn’t complain.

  Cristóbal didn’t
say anything either, but got to work. He lowered stones, pushed them forward with his chest, forced his way with his knees. He threw his lasso and used his riding crop, a crop larger than any other that has ever been seen, fit for such a horse and such a rider. He made a stone wall such as there has never been and never will be. Behind it the mountain looked small. General Quiroga seemed content.

  The packs of horses he brought in from outside the wall calmly got fatter. Goats grazed nearby and the warriors slept safely at night, each dream of theirs worth a hundred normal dreams. They woke up feeling strong and laughed. They were fearless people, but there they forgot the word fear itself, which sometimes creeps in as a reminder to those who are fearless.

  Near the wall, the shade was broad. When one came back from battle, sweat dried out there. Those who had been wounded felt the heat of their wounds relieved, as if they were bathing in a river, or like when, at sunset, a fresh breeze starts up and lightens tiredness. The stone wall was talked about as far away as Buenos Aires. They even say the queen of England heard it mentioned by a governor of Tucumán.

  ‘My General,’ said Cristóbal, ‘now I have served you. Let me be your soldier now. My horse has rested; there are now two of us for you to command.’

  ‘Good,’ said Quiroga. ‘Tomorrow we leave for battle, and you can come. We’ll see the way someone from the south behaves, someone from Magdalena and his horse. Someone from a land that doesn’t know about stones.’