T. Boyle - Tooth and Claw

I shifted uneasily in my chair. Serafina crept noiselessly into the room to clear away the plates and serve dessert, port wine and brandy. I could hear the wind at the panes. Paloma was the first to respond, and at the time I thought she was goading him on, but as I was to discover it was another thing altogether. “Inheritance?” she asked. “Or mutation?”

That was all the encouragement he needed, this windbag, this doomsayer, this howling bore with the pointed nose and coconut head, and the lecture it precipitated was to last through dessert, cocoa and maté in front of the fire and the first, second and third strokes of the niñitos ’ bedtime. “Neither,” he said, “though if they were to survive blind through countless generations — not very likely, I’m afraid — they might well develop a genetic protection of some sort, just as the sub-Saharan Africans developed an increase of melanin in their skin to combat the sun. But, of course, we’ve so radically altered these creatures’ environment that it’s too late for that.” He paused over an enormous forkful of cheesecake. “Don Bob,” he said, looking me squarely in the eye over the clutter of the table and the dimpled faces of my little ones, “those rabbits were blinded by the sun’s radiation, though you refuse to see it, and I could just stroll up to them and pluck them up by the ears, as many as you could count in a day, and they had no more defense than a stone.”

The challenge was mine to accept, and though I’d heard rumors of blind salmon in the upper reaches of the rivers and birds blinded and game too, I wasn’t about to let him have his way at my own table in my own house. “Yes,” I observed drily, “and I suppose you’ll be prescribing smoked lenses for all the creatures of the pampas now, am I right?”

He made no answer, which surprised me. Had he finally been stumped, bested, caught in his web of intrigue and hyperbole? But no: I’d been too sanguine. Calamities never end — they just go on spinning out disaster from their own imperturbable centers. “Maybe not for the rabbits,” he said finally, “but certainly this creature here could do with a pair…”

I leaned out from my chair and looked down the length of the table to where Señora Whiskers, that apostate, sat with her head in the madman’s lap. “What do you mean?” I demanded.

Paloma was watching, Isabela too; Bob Fernando Jr. and the little ones sat rigid in their chairs. “Call her to you,” he said.

I called. And the dog, reluctant at first, came down the length of the table to her master. “Yes?” I said.

“Do you see the way she walks, head down, sniffing her way? Haven’t you noticed her butting into the furniture, scraping the doorframes? Look into her eyes, Don Bob: she’s going blind.”

THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to a sound I’d never before heard, a ceaseless rapid thumping, as of a huge penitential heart caught up in the rhythm of its sorrows. Isabela awoke beside me and I peered through the blinds into the courtyard that was still heavy with shadow under a rare crystalline sky. Figures moved there in the courtyard as if in a dream — my children, all of them, even Paloma — and they fought over the swollen globe of a thumping orange ball and flung it high against an orange hoop shrouded in mesh. They were shouting, crying out in a kind of naked joy that approached the ecstatic, and the trenchcoat and the nose and the shrunken bulb of the bobbing head presided over all: basketball .

Was I disturbed? Yes. Happy for them, happy for their fluid grace and their joy, but struck deep in my bowels with the insidiousness of it: first basketball and then the scripture of doom. Indeed, they were already dressed like the man’s disciples, in hats with earmuffs and the swirling greatcoats we’d long since put away for winter, and the exposed flesh of their hands and faces glistened with his sunblock. Worse: their eyes were visored behind pairs of identical black sunglasses, Mr. John Longworth’s gift to them, along with the gift of hopelessness and terror. The sky was falling, and now they knew it too.

I stood there dumbfounded at the window. I didn’t have the heart to break up their game or to forbid the practice of it — that would have played into his hands, that would have made me the voice of sanity and restraint (and clearly, with this basketball, sanity and restraint were about as welcome as an explosion at siesta time). Nor could I, as dueño of one of the most venerable estancias in the country, attempt to interdict my guest from speaking of certain worrisome and fantastical subjects, no matter how distasteful I found them personally. But what could I do? He was clearly deluded, if not downright dangerous, but he had the ready weight of his texts and studies to counterbalance any arguments I might make.

The dog wasn’t blind, any fool could see that. Perhaps her eyes were a bit cloudy, but that was to be expected in a dog of her age, and what if she was losing her sight, what did that prove? I’d had any number of dogs go blind, deaf, lame and senile over the years. That was the way of dogs, and of men too. It was sad, it was regrettable, but it was part of the grand design and there was no sense in running round the barnyard crowing your head off about it. I decided in that moment to go away for a few days, to let the basketball and the novelty of Mr. John Longworth dissipate like the atmospheric gases of which he spoke so endlessly.

“Isabela,” I said, still standing at the window, still recoiling from that subversive thump, thump, thump, “I’m thinking of going out to the upper range for a few days to look into the health of Manuel Banquedano’s flock — pack up my things for me, will you?”

THIS WAS LAMBING SEASON, and most of the huasos were in the fields with the flocks to discourage eagle and puma alike. It is a time that never fails to move me, to strengthen my ties to the earth and its rejuvenant cycles, as it must have strengthened those ties for my father and his father before him. There were the lambs, appeared from nowhere on tottering legs, suckling and frolicking in the waste, and they were money in my pocket and the pockets of my children, they were provender and clothing, riches on the hoof. I camped with the men, roasted a haunch of lamb over the open fire, passed a bottle of aguardiente . But this time was different, this time I found myself studying the pattern of moles, pimples, warts and freckles spread across Manuel Banquedano’s face and thinking the worst, this time I gazed out over the craggy cerros and open plains and saw the gaunt flapping figure of Mr. John Longworth like some apparition out of Apocalypse. I lasted four days only, and then, like Christ trudging up the hill to the place of skulls, I came back home to my fate.

Our guest had been busy in my absence. I’d asked Slobodan Abarca to keep an eye on him, and the first thing I did after greeting Isabela and the children was to amble out to the bunkhouse and have a private conference with the old huaso . The day was gloomy and cold, the wind in an uproar over something. I stepped in the door of the long low-frame building, the very floorboards of which gave off a complicated essence of tobacco, sweat and boot leather, and found it deserted but for the figure of Slobodan Abarca, bent over a chessboard by the window in the rear. I recognized the familiar sun-bleached poncho and manta , the spade-like wedge of the back of his head with its patches of parti-colored hair and oversized ears, and then he turned to me and I saw with a shock that he was wearing dark glasses. Inside. Over a chessboard. I was speechless.

“Don Bob,” Slobodan Abarca said then in his creaking, unoiled tones, “I want to go back out on the range with the others and I don’t care how old and feeble you think I am, anything is better than this. One more day with that devil from hell and I swear I slit my throat.”