by Cesar Aira
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Around midwinter the first chicks began to hatch, and within a week the first contingent had taken up residence in the big rearing cages. Once established, the routine continued smoothly; so after months without a break, the workers could relax. Suddenly the young men realized just how exhausted they were. Indeed, they could barely articulate a word; every step seemed gigantic; the passage of time itself was a burden. They also noticed Ema’s weariness; she was heavily pregnant, and looked drawn, with bags under her eyes. They couldn’t understand how she kept going. It became clear that they all needed a vacation. And since the breeding farm could operate with a skeleton staff for the time being, there was nothing to prevent them having one, so they decided to go and relax in some picturesque location, at the most picturesque time of the year. The cold inclined them to inactivity.
The workers had no trouble convincing Ema. She had been entertaining such a plan for some time. The winter mood was conducive to reveries of elsewhere. A fine veil of tedium had fallen over daily life, perhaps because of the drop in stress. Travel was the most radical tonic: to go far away and let oneself sink into stone-like repose. Waking in the morning and hearing the cackle of a pheasant muffled by the snow, Ema was overtaken by restlessness. So when Bob Ignaze informed her of the feeling among his men, she nodded gracefully, and said: “I’ve been thinking and I already have a destination in mind. If everyone agrees, we can set off without delay.”
“I’m guessing it’s Carhué,” said Bob, “that magnet for vacationers.”
“Not at all. It’s too far away. We can’t afford to spend so much time traveling. There are other reasons too: the island is always busy, and we’d be better off somewhere quiet. The place I’m thinking of might have been specially designed for a month of sloth. I haven’t been there yet, none of us have, so we’ll be expanding our geographical knowledge. A site of historical importance, but its history will ensure that we have it to ourselves.”
She paused to savor the suspense that she had created. Bob was looking at her bewildered.
“The caves of New Rome,” she said.
The young man’s face lit up.
“Perfect!” he exclaimed. “I should have thought of it myself.”
“But will they be willing to go there? The stories about the mountain are sinister.”
“Of course they will. Those legends don’t matter.”
Bob regarded himself as belonging to an enlightened minority, immune to superstition. His enthusiasm was unreserved. He went away to spread the good news at once. Within a few moments the famous caves, which none of them ever wondered about and many had never even heard of, were at the center of everyone’s thoughts. Ema had studied all her maps. Their destination was two or three days’ march away, to the south. The caves were the only trace of the colony of New Rome — a place of pilgrimage for the generations of Indians following the massacre — and were shrouded now in dubious lore. They opened onto the mountainsides overlooking Bahía Blanca so there were bound to be splendid views, and the sea air in midwinter would be the ideal tonic for the workers, jaded as they were. One of them claimed to have visited the caves as a child and entertained the others with fabulous descriptions.
In total, they would be away from the farm for twenty days, after the next hatching at full moon. There was nothing to tie them down: the birds’ rhythms were extremely slow; they took so long to react that it was irritating just to watch them. There was no need to distribute the food more than once a day, and there were no predators or insects to ward off. In the clean air, the pheasants were content simply to walk around the snowy yards, leaving trails of starlike tracks. It was all so simple: four or five workers left behind could take good care of the operation. There were volunteers, who may have been frightened by the prospect of visiting the caves.
“What should we take?” the others wondered.
Their baggage was minimal: balls of uruku pigment, bow and arrows, herbs and paper for cigarettes, drinks, and a few small objects (ceramic vases, lanterns, etc.). As for the little horses, long inactive, fat as could be and brushed to a high luster, they were even more excited than their owners. They would have to go slowly for a start, since they were so out of shape. On the days leading up to the departure, they were taken out to run on the riverbank, and kept stopping after a few steps, puffing vehemently. Their bellies were round from all the oats and alfalfa, and from sleeping throughout the day.
“How could they get so fat?” asked some people, appalled. “I hope we don’t meet anyone on the way. We’ll be a laughing stock with these horses.”
But others found the horses elegant, including Ema, who said that it was common to see horses that fat or even fatter at court.
A few days passed. The moon filled out, the eggs broke open in the incubators, and the little chicks emerged, red like drops of sealing wax, cheeping ceaselessly and eating all the grains they were given. It was what the workers had been waiting for; now they could go away. Meanwhile the snow had begun to fall.
They left the next day at dawn and traveled all morning without a word, unhurriedly, in a straight line, heading south. By midday they were already well beyond familiar territory. They were beginning to taste the flavor of openness and silence. Ema could taste it too. The snow falling on her parasol was purity. As so often in the past, freshness, the sense of renewal, was propelling her into an empty world.
The travelers stopped by the bank of an unfamiliar river to lunch on the birds they had bagged along the way. Where were they? The watercourse was not marked on their maps. They were leaving the Pillahuinco basin behind, so everything seemed different. After a siesta they set off again, heading south-east now, making a detour to avoid the mountains. Throughout the afternoon, which was longer than they expected, they proceeded in silence, drowsily. The horses were walking in their sleep. The group crossed broad white moors, where sparrowhawks flew from time to time, under leaden clouds. When the light had dwindled to the faintest glow, they camped beside another river, among natural stone fortifications. The first thing they did was remove the saddles from their mounts and quarter them in the shelter of the walls, where the horses fell asleep immediately. The humans, on the other hand, didn’t feel sleepy at all: they swept the snow off the rocks and lit a fire to make coffee and tea. A hunting party set off into the darkness. It was simple to catch otters before the moon came out. A storm threatened but then failed to materialize. Gradually the night went by. From time to time slow flashes of lightning spanned the horizon. There were occasional falls of snow.
Shortly before dawn, there was an hour of silence and levity which put them all to sleep. The first to wake rose quietly, mounted their horses bareback, and set off for a tour. They were intrigued by the region’s fantastic landscape and wildlife. On a terrace not far away, they came across a fox: black as the devil, big as a calf, with a pointed muzzle, a tail like an anteater’s, and the agility of a bird. They barely glimpsed it, in the dimness of that hour, as it fled erratically over the icy terraces.
The second day of the journey was more lively, broken up by episodes of hunting and the visiting of ruins. The travelers left the mountains behind and ventured onto an icy plain. The horses sank chest-deep into the snow. The trails they left were curious because of their big round bellies.
The group saw a water pheasant, which stood out very clearly. A flock of seagulls followed them for a while.
Night overtook them out in the open. The clouds grew thicker; darkness fell. They stopped where they were. There were some who said they could see the uplands, not far off. But to be sure, they had to wait for the moon to come out. There it was: the massive shadow. They were practically at the foot of the slope. They slept deeply, dead to the world.
The next morning, the travelers were so impatient that they skipped breakfast and made do with a cup of coffee.
As is often the case, the bluff turned out to be
further away than it had seemed. But they were happy to travel a while longer. They wondered where the caves might be. The rock seemed uniform and solid. Were they hidden by the bushes? Had they fallen in?
One more step and they saw them, half way up: one mouth was round, the other heart-shaped. Two black, unobstructed openings, waiting for them up there, it seemed. The solitude was absolute.
Bob was walking his horse beside Ema’s.
“So here we are,” he said, “at the tragic caves. I never thought I’d get to see this mountain.”
“It doesn’t look very welcoming. How will we get up to the mouths?”
Bob pointed out winding paths carved into the rock, with stairs in some places. Ema looked at them dubiously.
“Will the horses be able to get up?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s too steep and narrow.”
A girl who was nearby said: “According to the legend, the ghost of Colonel Olivieri’s horse goes in and out every night.”
“Ghost horses must be more agile than these fat steeds of ours.”
They contemplated the solitude.
“The whole place looks dead. Could it really be that no one ever comes here? At least it’ll be peaceful.”
“It must be very quiet up there.”
Others seemed worried: they were wondering if there would be any game to hunt. They couldn’t see a single bird.
“There’s no place without game,” said Bob. “There are goats and wild pigs all over the mountain. And on the other side is the ocean. The beach is covered with clams and crabs every morning, you’ll see.”
When they reached the foot of the mountain, they put the horses in a kind of ruined stone corral, and blocked off the entrance with tree trunks. There were some hibiscus trees growing inside, in places sheltered from the snow. They watched the horses nibble at them and fall asleep.
The steps were covered with snow, and beneath that, a treacherous gray ice, so they had to climb very slowly. Ema held onto Bob’s arm. In spite of all the warnings, the children went racing ahead up the edge of the path, avoiding the steps. But when they reached the mouths of the caves, they didn’t dare go in. The adults stopped as well, to catch their breath. They were three hundred feet up, on a big round balcony. They looked out over a broad, snow-covered plain. There was a dark strip on the horizon: the forest, interrupted by the blue profiles of the mountains. Down below: the horses, like gray toys. Deep cold and weightless air. No breeze. The travelers turned around. They were on the threshold, facing the darkness.
“Which one should we go into first?” asked Ema.
“The heart-shaped one seems more inviting.”
“And that’s why we’ll start with the other one. It was the dungeon. Chances are we’ll end up staying in the cave with the heart-shaped entrance, but it’s worth having a look around.”
They lit paper lamps, whose light was invisible outside, and ventured into the corridors holding hands. At first they could see nothing, but little by little their eyes became receptive to the insinuations of the dark. They noticed the ancient smell of mushrooms. The rocks were covered with all kinds of moss, thick as pillows in some places. For many, many years, the spiders had been spinning undisturbed; they watched the intruders with a placid surprise.
Further in, chained to the rock, were rusty fetters, once used by “King Bomba’s officers” to quell the frequent uprisings in the colony. Heavy, superhuman.
The chambers were utterly dark. The visitors’ lamps flickered, throwing out gleams that hovered near the roof. They thought they could see bloodstains.
Where the moss had fallen away, they saw drawings done with sharp stones, hieroglyphics forming a halo around each set of fetters, where a prisoner had languished.
“I’ve heard,” said Ema, “that the two caves are connected by tunnels.”
“Of course. That was the key to the success of the mutiny. But we could spend days looking for the way through. It would be simpler to go back out and into the other one.”
Which is what they did. The cave with the heart-shaped opening was much more spacious, less oppressive. A natural grotto, altered only by digging the tunnels and enlarging a portal here and there. The hollow mountain. It had been the abode of the wicked colonel and his wife, which explained the allegorical shape of the entrance. She had come out from Europe to marry him sight unseen, and on the night of the rebellion, her throat was cut along with his.
Here the tourists were subjected to a different set of impressions, less gruesomely romantic. They emerged from a straight tunnel into a large room more than twenty yards high. Light seeped in through the cracks and folds of the ceiling, making the lanterns superfluous. A still stone-light. Numerous openings led into other, smaller rooms.
Ema’s party liked it. This was where they would stay, since they were near the exit but sheltered. The height of the ceiling and the invisible gaps in it allowed them to light a fire. The rock floor was warm; they could feel it through their mats. Perhaps the mountain was a volcano, with fire inside it. The wind could not be heard.
Their cigarette smoke was drawn up into the great dome. It formed strange, fleeting figures as it rose. The children ran through the passageways, playing hide and seek. They listened to the breath of their friends with a tranquil compulsion. All the indications were that nothing would trouble the visitors’ rest.
They roasted the partridges that they had caught at dawn; then almost everyone went to sleep. After a few hours, some set off to explore the passages, others played dice. And others fell asleep again.
Ema woke up half way through the afternoon. For a moment she didn’t know where she was; she looked up at the vaults awash with a delicate white light until the images came back to her: the journey on those fat little horses, the caves suspended among the clouds.
The others were sitting around her, preparing tea. They told her that a snowstorm had begun outside. She was drinking a cup of tea when the explorers appeared, in a state of excitement. They had found the opening on the other side of the mountain, which looked out over the bay. This made everyone impatient to go and see for themselves. The children scurried off like mice in the direction indicated. The adults followed them.
They walked for ages along endless corridors. Since they hadn’t brought lanterns, sometimes they had to make their way through the darkness, following the sound of footsteps. The floor remained level. Finally, at a bend, a pale light appeared, which grew in intensity with each successive chamber. The group came to a halt in a large rectangular room. The far wall was missing. In its place: a square so dazzling they could barely look at it. They stepped forward and froze, paralyzed by admiration.
The mountain came to an end, opened onto the void, at a greater height than the entrances on the north side. There was no parapet. But sitting on the ground, two yards from the edge, the visitors could see a landscape that none of them had ever dreamed of.
Nothing blocked their view. An immense, deserted beach, covered with white snow, and the sea in the distance, the famous bay, which now more than ever deserved its name: White. Everything was white: sky and earth. The snow was falling on the waves, which were distinguished only by their motion. Not a single bird traversed the air. The clouds formed a smooth film.
The group sighed, lost for words. The whiteness had shrunk their pupils down to the smallest aperture. They lit cigarettes, and stayed there until dusk, drowsing. When the cold began to bite they returned to the shelter of the inner rooms. With the whole labyrinth at their disposal, they scattered.
“Tomorrow we can go down to the sea,” said Ema.
They all wanted to ride on the beaches they had glimpsed from the heights.
They played dice, drank and smoke, oblivious to the passing of time, until eventually sleep overtook them all.
At some point during the night (or perhaps the next morning, it was hard
to tell), Ema woke up. She could feel the baby turning inside her. The fires were dying, and everyone around her was asleep. She got up and walked away along a passage chosen at random. The darkness was very dense in some stretches, but then it would be interrupted by the glow of a fire or its remains, near which, in a secluded chamber, someone was asleep. She heard muffled sighs, soundless laughter. She peered through an archway outlined with a reddish glow and saw a couple entwined on a mat. Next to them was a paper lamp the size of a die. They didn’t see her and pursued their games, which sleep had probably interrupted a thousand times already.
Ema returned at a leisurely pace and took the route that led to the northern openings, where her party had entered the mountain. It was day; the sun had risen behind white clouds. Down in the corral, the little horses were moving. They raised their heads: they must have been feeling lonely.
In the afternoon, when the group went down to set off for the sea, they were greeted by cheerful neighing. They mounted the horses and rode around the mountain. Ema, who was approaching the sea for the first time in her life, sniffed the air voluptuously. They rode along the beach until it got dark. They went riding there each day after that, and even swam, protected by a double layer of fat.
One day, Ema and four or five friends set off for a ride. The horses trotted on the sand mixed with snow, puffing contentedly. After the morning snowfall the mist had lifted, revealing nothing but whiteness. The horses peered ahead with an anxious curiosity, as if attempting to discover new beings in the realm of the invisible. Then suddenly both humans and animals discerned shapes moving in the distance, white on white: horsemen. The strangers too must have seen figures approaching, because they retreated.
Ema and her friends kept advancing, and the others, no doubt thinking that it would be impolite to hide, now remained where they were: a few men, mounted on dripping horses that seemed to have just come out of the sea. They must have been bathing them. Covered with fat from head to toe, the men shone against the dull coats of the animals. Only at very close range could Ema and her friends see that the group was composed of five youths and an old man, whom Ema recognized as a minor southern chief, a friend of Colonel Espina. What he was doing there was a mystery. He recognized her too, and came to greet her with the customary formality, not looking her in the eyes.
