Cesar Aira: The Hare

The joke was different in Huilliche of course, which was the language they were speaking in. But it survives the translation.

“Which explains,” Mallén went on, “his consumption of hallucinogenic grasses, although I must admit it’s gone a bit far of late. He uses them to create images, which interact with words to create hieroglyphs, and consequently new meanings. Given the prismatic nature of our language, there is no better way of bringing out meaning, in other words, of governing. And also, given that his own personal standing is based on his position as a man-myth, how could he think in any other fashion? He’s looking for speed, speed at any cost, and so he turns to the imaginary, which is pure speed, oscillating acceleration, as against the fixed rhythm of language.”

By now, they had reached the opposite crescent of tents, and so the shaman invited him to turn back. In the distance, the sound of feasting and quarreling could be heard; fires gleamed all round in the darkness.

“There’s no moon tonight,” Mallén said.

As they came up to Namuncurá’s tent once more, Mallén finally explained what the chieftain’s invitation consisted of.

“Tomorrow at noon there’ll be a hare hunt nearby in your honor, if you’re free. Good: I can assure you that this time you won’t be disappointed as you were today, although I can’t bring myself to believe that any hare will fly. We don’t want you to get a bad impression of us. Up to now, we’ve given you too many words and not enough action, haven’t we? But without words, there can be no experience. Although without experience, there can be no words — or anything else, for that matter.”

During the hunt the next day, Clarke did not see a single hare, and could have sworn that no one else did either. He was not sure, but had nobody to ask, or even to exchange opinions with; Gauna, who had begun talking to some idle old men in the hope of drawing them out, declared he had no intention of going; and the young watercolorist did not even bother to put in an appearance all morning. Around midday, a band of tall, haughty Indians came to tell Clarke they were waiting for him. This was a select group of about a hundred adults, all of them extremely well mounted. The athletic figure of Cafulcurá towered stony-faced above another group, who must have been his personal bodyguard. He did not greet Clarke even from a distance. In fact nobody greeted him, but then he did not know anyone in the party. They set off toward the east, at a brisk trot, but without too much haste. It was a sunny day like the previous one; as they rode, a searching breeze refreshed their bodies. Clarke was riding along with the men who had come to fetch him; like all the other Indians, they were smeared with a foul-smelling grease. Repetido was the only horse with a saddle. The Indians’ mounts, all of them light-colored ponies with extravagant markings, did not seem to be any better or swifter than his. They gradually increased their speed. As he had no idea where they were going, Clarke could not calculate how long it might take them to get there. The land was flat as a billiard table; the grass muffled the sound of their hooves. Lapwings traced wide circles of alarm in the sky. Clarke was riding in the midst of the group, so that the explosive flight of any partridges would not cause him such a shock. He had learned this precaution from Gauna, who gave a start and lifted his hand to his heart whenever a bird’s whirring escape caught him off guard. But the gaucho thought too much, unlike Clarke, who was the most outgoing of men. Apart from the warriors around Cafulcurá, who carried long lances, the rest of the Indians were unarmed, out for pleasure.

They must have gone three or four leagues, drinking in the cool air, rising and falling in extended cadences on the backs of their horses, when they suddenly came to a halt in a spot that was the same as all the others — because they were all the same — but was broader, more spacious still (the planet must have been squashed flat here, there was no other explanation). A few Indians who were perhaps especially skilful hunters began to walk round in circles staring closely at the ground, and then exchanged some words with Cafulcurá. In spite of the distance, Clarke could make out that the spokesman had put his eyes into a squint. He guessed he must be saying that this was a good place to find hares. The chieftain appeared to think for an instant, then shouted out in a loud voice that contrasted with his hesitant stammerings in private: “Ñi Clarke!” Silence spread still further, like a shock wave. The Indians around Clarke looked the other way in such a childish fashion that it was comic. He supposed the cry must mean something like “In honor of Clarke!” Several riders sped off in a line, which others joined at the end. Their leader took only a couple of minutes to reach the horizon. The bulk of the hunters fanned out, also at top speed, in what appeared to be a random dispersal. Cafulcurá was among them, and Clarke urged Repetido on in a direction more or less parallel to that of the chieftain. How they galloped! There was something hare-like about these lean, tireless horses which knew nothing but how to run. It took only a short time for them to disperse all over the vast prairie. When they reached a certain point, which must have been measured more by time than by place, the Indians turned round and sped back the way they had come. Obediently, Clarke copied them, although no one had explained the procedure to him. The mass of riders made up a moving grid; this probably created, from the point of view of the cornered hares, a closing circle which terrified them. Clarke even imagined he could make out the darting movements of the hares in between the horses’ hooves. But he would never have been able to point to any one of them. They were the foreshadowings of his perception, which never came to fruition. He racked his brains to try to work out what the key to the maneuver was. Perhaps each hunter simply passed the quarry onto the person who came after him in a lateral line, and so on the whole time. If that was the case, it was like a game of checkers that was pure speed, with no result. Although the result might be to exhaust the hares. Then in the end, they would be able to catch them by the ears by simply stretching out their hands, without even bothering to dismount. That would be typical of the Indians. The faint line of the horizon, grown fainter than ever, always kept half of the participants hidden from view, while at the same time, each one was at the center of his own circle. Movement was everything; the earth slipped by in dizzying strips; the sun was first on one side, then the other. Space itself changed position with each sweep: it seemed as though they were watching it pass by upside down. Off they went! Back they came! But to Clarke they were neither coming nor going; his point of view not only accompanied them, but was transformed as he joined in.

The Indians were enjoying the exercise. As they rode by, they shouted to each other, but unintelligibly to him; this was the nearest thing to real laughter this melancholy people could achieve. Then a few of them dismounted and settled down in the grass to drink from small bottles; Clarke thought it was water and went over to them. Unfortunately, it was some liquor or other. He lay down for a while. Repetido was bathed in sweat, his own legs were soaking from the horse, and he himself had sweated profusely. He took off his hat and covered his face with it, lying flat on his back. The Indians’ cries came from different sides and distances, seeming to follow a pattern, however mobile and changing. The Indians who had been drinking sped off again. It was as though after snatching a rest concealed from the others, they were now returning to their duty; but where had they been hidden? In sight of everyone? As Clarke continued to lie there, he began to feel that he himself was concealed, although the area the Indians were riding over had not changed. When he remounted, Repetido sprang off again, with more enthusiasm than his rider. But it is common knowledge that horses love to work up a sweat. Clarke had not completed a couple of sweeps before he heard a great tumult among the Indians. He thought they must have caught a hare, but it was not that. The cries were of alarm, of recrimination. They were all gathered together, screeching in a dreadful manner. Intrigued, Clarke went to see. Some riders headed like a streak of lightning for the encampment. When Clarke reached the other excited Indians, he gaped at them open-mouthed, unable to make out what was going on. He had never seen them so stirred up. They were making such a din he couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying. Suddenly the ones bearing lances came toward him, with threatening gestures. Seriously threatening, Clarke realized with a horrible sense of shock that paralyzed the beating of his heart. Until this moment, everything in his relation with the Indians had been provisional, abstract, tentative. Even the courtesy they had shown him was in some sense preliminary. Suddenly everything had become serious — deadly serious. “They’re going to run me through,” Clarke thought as he gulped with fear, staring at the bamboo lances. The worst thing was not to have the remotest idea of what it was all about, or what he had to do with it. Yet they did not follow through on their intention to kill him. They shouted things at him which, in the confusion of his mental state, he was unable to decipher. They were brandishing their lances a few inches from his chest. They must have understood each other though, because after a brief shouted discussion one group shot off toward the east. It was when they started shouting again that Clarke finally realized what had happened: Cafulcurá had disappeared. His jaw dropped in astonishment. He was trying to work out what few words he could say, some kind of expression of regret, when all the Indians’ heads turned in the direction of their village, from where a bedraggled procession was approaching at full tilt. His own group headed toward them, forcing Clarke to accompany them at walking pace. What lungs those savages had! They did not stop shouting for a moment. But how could the chieftain have disappeared? It seemed impossible, on this panoptic plain. Although on closer reflection, there was nothing easier, if at every moment, depending on the position of the observer, there was another person just below the horizon. It should be borne in mind, Clarke thought, that the natural habitat of these races was in the mountains, where hiding places abounded; it was no surprise therefore that they should reproduce that scenery by multiplying the only element that the flat plains offered them, namely the horizon line. At any rate, Clarke could understand why the bodyguards were so nervous, if the old man had been snatched thanks to the simple expedient of lying in wait for him below the horizon. No “hare” could have been so easily caught. But who could it have been? He realized they had been keeping the details of their political problems from him, even though it was true that he had not asked them any questions either. And why did they put the blame on him? He tried to remember what he had been doing a moment before all this: he had been stretched out in the grass, resting, feeling good. Not much of an alibi! The sun fell vertically on bodies seething with frustration. The horses snorted in disgust, deprived of their exercise.