Cesar Aira - The Hare

His first impulse was to turn and run, but he thought better of it. He went closer. As he had no boots on, he got all kinds of thorns and sharp stones stuck in the soles of his feet. Carlos neither looked up, nor took his hands from his face, nor stopped crying for a second. Overcome with pity, Clarke put his arm round his shoulder. When he tried to speak, words failed him. He wanted to console the boy, but did not know how to. The most natural thing seemed to him to take Prior somewhere else, to go and fetch his horse at least, to get on with his plans and forget about the Indians. He wanted to concentrate on one thing and forget the other. His mind was in such a confused state, however, that the two impulses became entangled.

All the same, the youth allowed himself to be led along a few steps without protesting, sobbing all the while. They had hardly gone a few yards when a shadow fell across them. Clarke was the only one who lifted his gaze. A horseman stood out against the setting sun, mysterious as yet, slightly threatening because of his position above them and because he had stopped and was staring at them. “What’s he going to think?” Clarke immediately wondered. The lugubrious voice that rang out clearly showed him that it wasn’t a question of thinking anything.

“I was looking for you.”

It was the voice of Mallén the shaman. A voice from beyond the grave, filled with concern: the voice of a man with a serious problem. Clarke let go of the youth and stepped to one side so that Mallén would not be against the light. He was taken aback by his face: he seemed to have aged twenty years in a single day.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to talk to you.”

He used none of the usual circumlocutions. The Englishman realized the seriousness of the situation, and did not keep him waiting.

“All right, I’ll get properly dressed.” Then to Carlos: “I’ll be back right away.” He walked on a few steps, but then felt the need to add something more, so said: “Try to calm down.”

Clarke returned to the grassy beach as quickly as he could, with the shaman behind him. He put his trousers on, rubbed his feet briskly to get rid of the gravel and bits of grass, and wriggled into his boots.

“I’m all ears,” he said, facing the Indian.

“Come with me, please. Let’s find somewhere quieter.”

It was difficult to imagine anywhere quieter than the spot they were already in, but Clarke mounted up anyway and followed the shaman, who headed off at a walk in a direction perpendicular to the stream. They were soon in open ground. To Clarke’s surprise, a hill appeared in the distance. It was a gentle one, but well-defined, perhaps in contrast to the flat plain all around. They rode up it. When they reached the top Mallén, who so far had not opened his mouth again, dismounted and invited Clarke to do the same. It seemed strange that by climbing such a little way, they could see so far, but that was a natural property of the prairie: each yard climbed represented a hundred leagues. They sat down in the grass, their faces turned toward the sun. As the Indian still said nothing, Clarke decided to take the initiative with something neutral:

“It’s a fine evening.”

“Would you believe I’m so worried I hadn’t even noticed?”

“You must have your reasons.”

“I’ll say I do.” A fresh, prolonged silence. But the Indian had got started, so Clarke contented himself with waiting. Sure enough, with the lines on his face deepening and his eyes turning even blacker, Mallén began to explain. “What I most feared has happened.”

His words had a special resonance for the Englishman.

It was the kind of expression which, when examined logically, did not make sense. Yet it was the second time in the space of half an hour that he had heard it, in one way or another.

“As you well know,” the Indian went on, “in spite of all the precautions taken, Cafulcurá has disappeared.”

“But hasn’t he appeared again?”

“Don’t tell me you believed that official denial! If you did, you were the only one to do so.”

Yet again, this scorn for his naivety. Obviously then, it wasn’t just Gauna. Clarke decided not to let it upset him.

“The fact is, I didn’t stop to think about it. I accepted what I was told, as a matter of course.”

Emerging from his pessimistic daydream, Mallén stared at him as if he were seeing him for the first time that evening:

“Of course. I’d forgotten they suspected you at first. How absurd.” He waved his hand, as if dismissing a triviality. “Well, yes, our chieftain has been kidnapped. And everything appears to indicate there is little chance of getting him back alive. All we can hope is that for some reason or other they postpone his execution. There’s also the fact that his son Reymacurá, who went off in pursuit of his kidnappers, has not returned. As you can see, we only have a slender thread to hang on to.”

“Couldn’t he have disappeared of his own accord?”

“Don’t talk rubbish.”

“So who could it have been?”

“Everything suggests it was our most bitter enemies, the

Voroga.”

“Why shouldn’t they kill him immediately?”

“Mister Clarke, I have decided to confide in you. You’ll soon see why. To my mind, there’s a black-hearted, ferocious woman behind all this. Have you ever heard of Rondeau’s widow?”

“No.”

“A few years ago, Cafulcurá defeated a Voroga chief by the name of Rondeau, and quite logically, put him to death. Among the reparations that were then paid to the defeated tribe (because we have the generous custom that it is the victor who pays) was an offer of marriage to the chieftain’s widow. That woman, who is not even a Voroga by birth but a complete stranger, had the audacity to reject the proposal, and fled with a group of her followers. Over the years, a lot more have joined them, so that today she has a fearsome power.”

“What does she have against Cafulcurá?”

“Nothing, and that’s what is most disturbing. It’s not because he killed her husband, because she herself tried to do that on more than one occasion — she hated him. In fact, she doesn’t seem to have anything against Cafulcurá or anyone else in particular; she’s happy just to be bloodthirsty and to survive.”

“Why do you suspect her?”

“Because she is the only person daring enough to carry out a raid like this, and the only one with so little to lose (she doesn’t even possess any territory) that she doesn’t fear any reprisals. Even so, she must have realized she was going too far, and that is why I suspect she has reached an understanding with the current leader of the Vorogas, that hypocrite Coliqueo, who is the one who stands to gain most from Cafulcurá’s death. My whole line of thinking is based on that hypothesis: if Cafulcurá was taken alive, it must have been her, with the intention of keeping him and threatening her associate with returning him to us if he does not fulfill his promises, whatever they might have been. In that way, she secures her position.”

“I see.”

“I wanted to ask a great favor of you, Mister Clarke.”

“At your service.”

“Will you go to Coliqueo’s camp and try to discover his intentions? I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“But I’ve no idea how to do that!”

“Oh come now, don’t be so modest. If anyone knows, it’s you.”

“How would I get there, with all the tension there is in the air?”

“But you are precisely the one who would have the least problem doing so. How did you get this far?”

“Well. .” said Clarke, who in reality had never seriously asked himself that question, “I suppose it was due to the skill of my tracker, and good will on your part. . ”