Nothing But Dust

by Sandrine Collette

  It can’t be. He’d never take a llama’s hoofprint for a horse’s, that he is sure of. He spurs Halley on. The chestnut moves forward, then balks. He doesn’t know this place, but he does know, instinctively, how long they’ve been away, and he realizes they can no longer turn back before nightfall. Sniffing the air, he detects wild smells—foxes, a few rodents, predators, too, of the kind that terrify the herds when they give chase in order to isolate the weakest member. And he smells the water, turns back down the mountain to head toward it, and the little brother lets him go until they can make out the brown glimmer of the swamps. When they reach the edge of the swamps the boy hobbles Halley, breaks up some barberry branches to make a fire, some dead wood he finds under the trees that grow in the sodden soil. Since morning the wind has been blowing at them, draining them, and Rafael wants to be sure to find a place that is sheltered, up against some yellow boulders. In the tiny cook pan he brought with him he stews some dried beans and cuts a slice of smoked meat. Around him, in the dark, he hears his horse gnawing at rushes and probably the leaves on the bushes as well, and when the chestnut snorts, Rafael feels his presence and finds some comfort there. Later, wrapped in a blanket by the fire, his head against the saddle, he almost feels happy; but the uncertainty of finding Jericho and Nordeste twists his gut. He listens to the night birds, their squawks and cries, the rush of wings. The furtive scampering of little mammals, the constant rustling of the wind in the branches of the mayten trees. He feels alone and extraordinarily free, in the middle of the world. He reaches his hand up to the stars, he could be touching them. He holds that optical illusion and passes from one to another, as if he were caressing them with his fingertips, as if he were brushing against sparks, trying to herd them together, the only thing he knows how to do, and he does this until his arm begins to ache. Then he puts it under the blanket again and pushes the saddle closer to the fire, and the flames flicker over his face in long, hot orange tongues, he gazes at the embers, the incandescent light. When he closes his eyes, the red sparks dance and crackle behind his lids, and again he looks at the sky, the fire, he shivers in the cooling air, fatigued by this vagabond day. And he thinks again of the runaway horses.

  Did they stop, too, or did they go on in the night, walking carefully? Maybe they’ll retrace their steps, maybe they’re already tired of this freedom that brings them neither grain nor clean water, terrified by the sound of the creatures hiding at the edge of the forest and the smell of pumas carried by the whirling wind. The little brother laid some branches across the trail to block the path but he doesn’t really believe it will do any good, that they’ll come back, that would be too easy, to wake up and find them there grazing next to Halley as if nothing had happened, ready to go home. Tomorrow he will follow their tracks into the great forest he saw from a distance, and leave the low-lying plateaus. He should have brought an extra blanket. Twice he gets up, shivering, and adds wood to the fire. When the wind veers, he has to move farther from the fire, fearful of being burned in his sleep. He sleeps poorly, stirred by a strange excitement, a clarity that allows him to hear thousands of rustling noises, the dull clamor of nocturnal creatures, insects and prairie mice, raptors and hunters. In the middle of the night it all falls quiet and the sounds fade. He is woken by a silence so heavy that it seeps into his ears, like the shells from the ocean the nomadic gauchos let him listen to but never gave him. He tosses more branches onto the fire, damp wood that whistles and cracks, to cover the world’s silence. He is convinced that nothing can happen behind his back as long as the embers are still singing like this, but his eyes are open and his senses on the alert. He could count the hours. It is enough just to keep an eye on the fire, until gradually his eyelids itch and grow heavy, he is not even aware of it, and eventually they close altogether. His breathing is so peaceful that he might seem dead, lying there by the flames then the burning branches of wood. Then the ashes. When dawn startles him awake, he is on his back with his arms spread wide, he is warm, and stiff, and his first gesture is to stir the embers, but there is no warmth left there, not a cinder, nothing.

  These strange, solitary days, the only rhythm that of the horse’s hooves, while Rafael dozes for hours on end, still groggy from Mauro’s blows. Terribly monotonous, time goes by, without him noticing.

  On the third day he enters the forest. The change of landscape leaves him stunned; all he has ever known is the treeless steppe. He looks up at the magnificent boughs, the changing hues of entire regions where the rain has ventured. The arrayáns display their golden trunks, their silvery foliage mingled with the cypress trees that grow among their roots. With his fingertip he touches the low-lying branches of the araucarias, of a green so dark he thought they were black. He jabs his finger. Is startled. Gazes all around him at the sparse undergrowth woven with sun and wind, their new, unreal colors. Something inside him fills with a wonder so deep it is stifling, saturated with impossible visions, smells of humus and resin. His eyes open wide, red with staring. He spreads his arms. Breathes. And nothing comes to disturb the magical beauty of the forest, neither the eagerness to find his horses nor the thought that at the estancia the mother is already waiting, muttering about how slow he’s always been.

  Halley walks soundlessly. The rocky surface gradually yields to a dust of earth and sand, crumbling into broken pebbles at the trail’s edge. He easily picks up the horses’ prints again. He stops.

  Goes and sits down.

  If he was at the farm he would never do this, but solitude and freedom propel him; he gathers a few branches, lights a fire, and puts some water on to boil. He feels like having some maté. He doesn’t need it: he feels like it. No one is here to forbid him. It’s like taking a break. At the estancia he never could have. But here. His eyes glued to the little pot, he lets his mind wander. Time goes by, liquid, lazy. When the horse comes and sniffs him from behind, he can feel his nose tickling him, the warm breath, it makes him close his eyes. He laughs, gently pushes him away. Plays with his fingers on the horse’s white nose, on the pink lips that try to catch him, and he says, No, no. After a few moments Halley moves away, goes back to grazing; Rafael throws a few leaves into the simmering water.

  Again he listens to distant sounds, and knows that after the last forest the landscape will change yet again. The lakes. Perhaps the horses have gone there to drink. He reins in the urge to hurry there; he is feeling drowsy, replete with sensations. The birds’ calls arrive in waves, shatter against the trees. The earth is gray like the wind.

  Suddenly the lake is there without warning, offering its irregular immensity to the little brother’s gaze of stupefaction. It is surrounded by grasses and thickets, and in places it narrows into winding fords, while in others it opens out onto large blue expanses, where tiny beaches provide access. Rafael jumps off his horse and strips, runs toward the shallow water, so transparent he can see the flat pebbles beneath his feet. He runs farther then at last goes into the water, it is bracing against his skin, then he surfaces, shivering. He laughs to himself, waves his arms to splash the water. All around him the lake is white, frothing, the shrubs are a pale green, and there is the blue of the sky. He cries out. The joy is too great to stay in his gut or his throat, indescribable, but it has to be let out, otherwise he will explode, and what he roars is how splendid the world is, an unbelievable discovery, which takes his breath away and makes his temples throb. With his mouth open on incredulous laughter he gradually falls silent, keeping only the dizziness and dazzle of it. He turns round and round in the tranquil water, feels the movement of the water against his hips. He spins again, and again, and staggers. Stands still in a last cry.

  A raptor takes flight, disturbed, a black form against the sun. The little brother holds his hands visor-like and watches the bird fly away. Calls to it, in vain. He plays with the water again, swishes it, forces his way through, and comes out on the shore, returns, leaping, until the pressure on his legs makes him lose his balance and he f
alls. Then with his heart pounding, breathless from so much laughter and shouting, he floats a few feet from the edge, making sure he always has his depth. The light exalts him, reverberating on the lake, the groves of trees, the almost-sand. He closes his eyes and a strange melody comes to lull him, so intangible he is not quite sure he has heard it, but he pretends he has, delights in the crystalline notes, never mind if they are merely the fruit of his imagination. Something grazes his leg beneath the water, tickling, and suddenly he is afraid. What unknown creatures live here and dream of luring him to the bottom—the question courses through him, and all at once he rushes forward, using his arms to propel himself through the lake, stepping high to run, to get out of there, breathless.

  On his knees on the shore, wheezing, he rolls himself up in the blanket and laughs at the thought that he has escaped from some imaginary monsters; he is so glad he is safe. Narrowing his eyes he looks at the smooth surface of the water, sees nothing, not the slightest movement, only the wind stirring the tiniest ripples.

  But below the surface the lake was readying its wyvern-like creatures, of that much he is sure.

  He abandons the idea of sleeping on the shore and moves inland to find the shelter of a boulder. No creatures will find him there, or drag him out and back into the consuming depths. He lights a fire. Behind him, in perspective, the lake sleeps, barely troubled by the faintest lapping. The little brother observes it, still wary. He gradually feels peace descend as night folds around him, and he forgets his fears, lulled by the soothing firelight. Sleep gathers him, he lets go. His dreams are inhabited by miraculous visions, but none of them come close to the enchantment of the landscapes he has discovered these last days.

  THE MOTHER

  And these days on the estancia are wearing out her hands and her back, with two sons gone, even if there’s Mauro, with his strength, and her own pride at having given birth to such a colossus, but alas when he’s the only one—because even if Steban does his work without a fuss, they can’t leave him on his own, can’t trust him, they’re never sure. In a way, the only ones left are the mother and the tall twin. The other son helps the way the dogs do, obeying orders, and you always have to check on him, you never know. On one hand the half-wit, on the other the good animals, and basically they’re equal, it doesn’t bother her anymore to admit it, that’s how life has ordained it. If only Steban could run as fast as the dogs.

  This is why the mother sighs when she says there are only two of them left to run the estancia, which needs five pairs of arms, or better six, and Steban doesn’t react, leaning over his plate, you wonder if he even heard her, if he thinks he’s included in the two the mother is referring to, or simply whether the numbers have confused him, two, five, or six, whereas when he himself thinks about it he comes up with three—like the dogs, but maybe he’s wrong, and he continues to sit there in silence.

  Fortunately, it’s not shearing season yet, otherwise the runaway horses could have gone to the devil, the mother wouldn’t have let Rafael leave, and that would have earned him a few sleepless nights, the time it would take for the horses to come back on their own or get lost for good. Because it’s the ewes before anything, they are what they live off of, they are what the mother needs if she’s to go drinking in San León as much as the father drank at home, basically fate has simply shifted from one to the other, but the family curse doesn’t affect her, no, not her, and there is a hush all around her when she sits at the bar and calls for a drink.

  And so to banish this strange ennui that has come over her on the deserted estancia, one morning she hastily harnesses the horse and heads off to town. She has left Mauro behind: someone has to stay. He protests:

  “Why not Steban?”

  The mother gives him a nasty look. Don’t be ridiculous.

  “I’ll drink up your reserve.”

  “I’ll be back before nightfall. Don’t let me catch you at it. Don’t forget the heifers.”

  Crack of the whip and she’s gone, speeding along the road, only too happy to get away from the gloomy day. It’s not so much monotony that bothers her as the void, two fewer sons to yell at, she can’t get used to it. Not enough people to give orders to. Not enough orders to bark, and the steers don’t run enough, even the dogs go around with their heads drooping. Maybe when she gets home the little brother will be back, that bloody dreamer, he’s bound to be lolling along the trail gazing at the sky.

  In town she does some hasty business in the shops, to keep her conscience clear, then rushes to the bar as soon as the time seems right. There’s a buzz in the air and this surprises her, and yet she’s early, and already there is a crowd laughing and talking loudly, she goes up to the table where Emiliano is sitting, he’s called out to her, and as she sits down next to him she says, “Must be something going on, for it to be this crowded.”

  He gives a quiet laugh.

  “You know this lot. Least little thing and they’re excited.”

  “I’d like to know why that is, myself.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “Ah ha?”

  “It’s worth a beer, isn’t it?”

  When Alejo sets the glasses down in front of them, Emiliano thanks him, blows on the foam. Takes a swig then starts laughing again already.

  “So here’s the thing. First of all, there’s this big breeder from the pampa who got robbed last week, maybe you heard about it. Millions of fresh banknotes from his safe, vanished, bound to be one of his men. So word has it that the robber is in the area. A posse came through here yesterday, they’ve lost his trail. In my opinion they lost him a while ago; when a guy’s been on the run for two hundred miles it’s a bad sign. For sure they were about to give up and head back. So you know how it is, the minute one of those bastards has a rough time, the likes of us are all glad, aren’t we. As for his men, we rode with them right to the gates of the town and made fun of them all the way. You bet! The whole business just tickles me pink.”

  The mother smiles, too.

  “So there’s justice after all. Filthy meat men.”

  “They think they own the place.”

  “Their pockets are so full they don’t give a damn if the country goes to rack and ruin.”

  “Well, there’s one who’s not about to fill them up again any time soon.”

  “Dios mio, does me good to hear things like this, Emiliano.”

  “Yup. But the best yet—”

  He breaks off and the mother opens her eyes wide.

  “Well?”

  “This is a true story, I swear: Juan’s wife gave birth to a dark-skinned baby.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yup, a Negro. A black baby. You see all these morons drinking all around us and falling off their seats laughing? That’s why.”

  The mother cannot believe it.

  “You mean . . . Juan from the bank?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Juan Gomez?”

  “Yes, I said!”

  “Land sakes! Hey, Alejo! We need some drinks over here! On me!”

  Afterward, the mother goes and knocks at the door of the bank. But since she’s been drinking for a while, the door is already locked. She hammers on the door, singing, Gomez, show me your little dark-skinned baby, let me see your dark eyes . . . She stands there like a witch, bent double with laughter, and she walks back and forth outside the locked building, drunken, determined, thinking up the worst jibes and jokes she’s heard this evening, and there sure were plenty there in the bar, the worst ones so she can say them again, arms spread in a hesitant, joyful dance, she shouts herself hoarse, Gomez, Gomez, how does it feel now it’s your turn?

  Behind her, a sob in the night.

  She looks around.

  Juan’s wife is there, sitting against the wall, the baby in her arms—or at least the mother thinks it’s the baby, because in the dark she can hardly see. The mother open
s her mouth, thinks for a moment before speaking; the words are buried deep in her brain. And at first all she manages is an alcoholic grunt, followed by a question mark, no doubt, but who could guess? She tries to focus: Well, well. What have we here. Steps backward as the weeping grows louder, mingled with words she does not understand. She reaches out to pull aside the blanket protecting the infant’s face. Raises an eyebrow: he’s not as dark as she expected, she thought he’d be black as coal, but maybe she can’t see because of the obscurity, or the moonlight, and she stands up straight, meets the woman’s helpless gaze, and with a shudder hears the trembling voice murmuring, “Help me, please.”

  And the mother doesn’t like those words, she’s a person who has never asked, never begged, she gazes silently at the huddled figure before her and it makes her think of a pile of wool after the ewes have been shorn, shapeless, crumbling, that’s all it puts her in mind of, she doesn’t answer.

  “Please.”

  Now the woman holds the baby out to the mother, and the mother understands. That she could take it. Do what she wants with it, the guilty woman doesn’t care, she fucks black men, she just wants someone to take the child, wants it to disappear from her life. Just then the mother would tell her that she’ll leave it out for the pumas—God willing one will come along some day soon—or that she’ll tell Mauro to bang it against a wall to kill it, then bury it, Mauro would do that, no questions asked. Anything rather than keep it. And the woman herself, couldn’t she harness her horse, with her banker husband, and ride off to abandon it outside the church in some other village? Oh, the mother knows she’d have to go a long way to find a place where no one has heard the story, so they wouldn’t bring the baby straight back the next day, and she can already imagine the jibes: “Hey, Gomez, you lose something?”