Cesar Aira - The Hare

“That’s a real mess, their own business. ‘For them to deal with,’ as Burke would say.”

“Mister Clarke. .”

“Yes?”

“How about if we stopped for some tea?”

“Why? Are you still feeling queasy?”

“No. What I’m feeling is an empty stomach.”

“I’d like nothing better. But what will Gauna say?”

Since Gauna had heard every word, it was he who invited them to dismount on the slope of some small hillocks. They had covered an enormous amount of ground while they were conversing. And it was always possible to make up lost time. The second half of the morning ride was even more productive in terms of leagues traveled, which gave them a perfect excuse to take a lengthy siesta beside a wooded creek. The species of tree were somewhat exotic for this latitude, which led Clarke to believe they had been planted by Indians who had emigrated from further north. It seemed very odd that people should emigrate taking tree seeds with them, but after all, it was more practical than taking furniture. They ate scraps. Then the three of them lay back in the shade and fell asleep. Following the Indian custom, which they found very convenient, they left their horses (they had twelve in total) loose to graze: the curious thing was that the animals appeared to have understood the way they were being treated. Clarke was awakened by cries from Carlos Alzaga Prior. When he opened his eyes, he saw the youth sitting upright in the grass, bathed in sweat, his eyes staring wildly. He had had a bad dream. Gauna was busy adjusting the stirrups on three of the horses. They set off again after a drink of coffee to help them wake up.

“I’m sorry about your dream,” Clarke said to Carlos when they had got under way and their horses had fallen in step so that the two men could talk again.

“Nightmares are the worst thing imaginable.”

“Do you think so? I wouldn’t go that far. If nightmares become real, yes. But when you still have the possibility of waking up. .”

“How clever of you, as always! What you say is true, I’d be the last to deny it. But at the same time, I’d say there’s another truth. One can think one is always in the middle of a dream, precisely because of the consistence of reality, because it continues and keeps on going, though we have no idea how or why.”

“Yes, but sometimes reality is not such a continuum. Sometimes it can be interrupted.”

“Always!”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know. . don’t ask too much of me.”

“You’re a typical empiricist.”

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Might I ask what exactly you dreamt?”

“I’d better not tell you.” Prior blushed. “I’d rather tell you what I am dreaming now, but you already know what that is.” He gestured toward the vast expanse of pampa.

“Are you enjoying the outing?”

“It’s as if I had just started to live. There’s Yñuy, there’s you. .”

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. But there’s an example for you: Yñuy disappeared, and that whole line of reality was interrupted. It’s as though she passed from one state to another, from one dream to another.”

“We’ll find her.”

“Of course. There’s a bridge: love.”

“That wonderful thing,” Clarke said, quoting his young friend with gentle irony.

“Don’t you think it’s a great wonder that something should exist which can infallibly link the discontinuities of life?”

“Not everybody loves.”

“Yes, everyone.”

“Ah, Carlos, Carlos, if only I were still fifteen like you.”

Their conversation took many unexpected twists and turns. While they talked, the miles slid under their horses’ hooves like a ribbon that could have included everything, not just the ground, but all the rest as well: their thoughts, the sky, the weather. Fifty yards ahead of them, Gauna went on whistling his tune, paying them not the slightest attention. They saw a rider in the far distance. He was no more than a dot, so distant they could not tell whether he was moving or not.

“Can it be the wanderer?” Clarke said. This had become his obsession. He called to Gauna and pointed to the dot in the

distance.

“I’ve already seen it,” said Gauna.

“It’s an Indian on horseback, isn’t it?”

“What eyesight you have,” the tracker said.

“He’s a real eagle,” Carlos Alzaga Prior declared.

“Can it be the wanderer we saw before?”

Gauna shrugged and turned to stare in front once more. When he had got his usual distance ahead of them, Clarke whispered to his companion:

“Gauna seems French.”

“Why?”

“Because of that habit he has of shrugging his shoulders. The French have inherited the gesture from the time of the Revolution, out of fear of the guillotine.”

Carlos burst out laughing. “That’s a good one! I’ll tell it to Federico, who does the same.”

“Who’s Federico?”

“My best friend. It’s a shame he didn’t come.”

“You’ll have lots to tell him when you get back.”

“I’ll say! When he sees me turn up married, and with a child too! He’s not going to believe it!”

“We’re going to have to have a serious talk about that.”

“Why’s that?” Carlos became defensive.

“We’ll talk later,” was all Clarke would say.

“As soon as you meet Yñuy, your doubts will vanish, believe you me.”

“I’ve no doubt she must be an extraordinary girl. But it doesn’t do to rush into things.” Before the youth could let fly with the vehement denial that was on the tip of his tongue, Clarke went on: “I know what you’re going to say. That’s why I’d prefer to drop the subject until later — until you have something to say which might surprise me.”

“Perhaps I never will. You are far too clear-sighted.”

This might have been ironical, but Clarke let it go. So that Carlos wouldn’t take offense, he asked him to tell him about his family.

Immediately, Carlos was in his element! He loved talking, and always assumed the other person was interested. Since this was of course a mistake, he could not avoid taking it to its extreme and showing a particular pleasure whenever he talked about himself.

“Since I am adopted,” he began, “it could be said I am all the family I have.”

“That’s a grave error on your part,” Clarke said. “There are many ways to have a family. But it’s typical of you: I’ve never known anyone so aware of the circumstances of their birth. As I’ve told you, I also am adopted. And I think I’ve never recalled the fact in my whole life. It’s you who have reminded me of it, and even so, I can’t attach much importance to it.”

“I on the other hand even think I can recall the moment I was born.”

“That’s impossible. Nobody can.”

“Mister Clarke, we always come back to the same thing. You are such a rationalist, but you don’t realize that reason itself can prove you wrong. Tell me, what is there to stop someone recalling their whole life, right from the beginning?”

“You won’t deny that if you ask a thousand, or a million men that. .”

“That wouldn’t prove a thing, as far as reason is concerned. Answer my question.”

“All right, it is possible. Where does that get you?”

“Do you admit then that everything possible is possible?”

Clarke did not reply: he did not want to get caught up in the byzantine adolescent arguments his companion was so fond of.

“You’re a distant relative of Rosas, aren’t you?”

“Some great-uncles in my family are in-laws of his. My adopted family, I mean of course.”

“Yes, yes. Can’t you ever forget that?”

“Well, I think it’s important.”