Cesar Aira - The Hare

“Have you no idea who your real parents are?”

“None.”

“Haven’t you tried to find out?”

“No. Why?”

“How absurd you are! If it’s so important to you, wouldn’t it be logical for you to go to that trouble at least?”

“Did you?”

“I adopted my adoptive parents from the start, and completely. I don’t recall ever having mentioned to anyone that I am a Clarke by adoption.”

“Everyone must do as they think best.”

They rode for a while in silence. Eventually it was Carlos who took up the conversation again:

“In fact, I did make some inquiries. The person who knows is my mother.”

“Of course.”

“But she’s always been very reluctant to say anything.”

“I’m sure it’s for your good.”

“I made her promise that when I am eighteen she will tell me.”

“Do they have other children?”

“I’ve three brothers and three sisters.”

“Do you get on well with them?”

“More or less.”

“I suppose they never get at you for being adopted?”

“Never. They’d pluck their tongues out first. They’re too well-brought-up for that.”

“Too good-natured, you mean.”

“Their upbringing is enough for me.”

“My parents never had children,” Clarke said, then laughed at the way the phrase sounded. But Carlos had not even heard him. He was preparing to carry on talking about his own situation:

“The fact is that my mother. .” he began, but then he paused, interrupted by something amusing that was happening in front of them — or rather, in front of Gauna, who as usual was some way ahead. A little bird kept landing on the ground in front of the gaucho’s horse, and just as the latter’s hooves were about to crush it, the bird would fly off and settle again a few yards further on, only to repeat exactly the same action a few moments later, like a metronome. Even though Gauna had stayed calm, it was clear that the bird’s obstinate hopping was driving him crazy. He had gone so far as to stop whistling. Clarke spurred on Repetido so that he could get a better view.

“It’s a roadrunner,” he told the tracker. “It can spend hours doing that.”

“Get your shotgun out,” Gauna growled.

Carlos laughed. He maneuvered his horse so that he was in the lead, and the bird immediately adopted him. The other two fell back, listening to the young painter’s laughter each time the roadrunner repeated its senseless gesture.

“Birds of a feather flock together,” said Gauna.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Clarke replied. “Have you never seen a roadrunner before?”

“If I have, I didn’t notice. I’ve had more important things to do.”

“Don’t imagine that to observe Nature is simply a waste of time, Mister Gauna. It can also be a profession, as in my case.”

“So you knew what it was?”

“Yes, and all the species in its family. .”

“Well then, what did you learn by looking at it?” his companion interjected.

“. . the family of the ‘ caprimulgidae. ’”

“Fascinating,” Gauna drawled laconically.

“It’s more fascinating than you might think. There are experts who have devoted their lives to studying this one family.”

“Incredible! What a way to waste their time.”

“They are nocturnal birds. . ”

At this, the gaucho burst out laughing, which was unusual for him. He was genuinely amused. It was after all broad daylight.

“The roadrunner is the one which comes out earliest, before sunset.”

“I can see that.”

Annoyed by now, Clarke said nothing more. He was a patient man, but he had his limits. Suddenly the bird flew off, with a plaintive cry. Carlos dropped back, and Gauna took the lead once more. The sun began to set. They did not even think of coming to a halt. This was the best time of day for riding. In addition to the refreshing coolness, the light took on a new luster; as it grew dark, the air became more crystalline, and distances defined themselves more clearly. As happened every evening, a glorious pink wash of color spread across the sky. The silence became deeper, denser. Even the two inveterate conversationalists fell quiet. They must have ridden on for a further two hours, until the day gave way to night and the stars began to shine. Stillness reigned. They made camp out in the open, gathering together fossilized straw and strips of quebracho wood for a fire, which Clarke lit with his British tinderbox. As every night, they were exhausted, and moved like slow clockwork figures. It seemed incredible to them that the grass was no longer running backward, two and a half yards beneath their eyes. The horses formed a friendly group around them. They gave them water to drink from a small barrel, then fed them. Afterward, it was their turn: they made some tea, and roasted some small partridges, speaking only in monosyllables, then made ready for the night. All this was done quite rapidly, so that it was only now that the night was losing its final glow in the west. Well fed, relaxed, and with a refreshing tea soothing their aching bodies, their spirits rose again. They could hear the steady breathing of the horses around them. Gauna lit a cheroot, which for him was a sign of good humor.

“I’d go for a bit of a walk,” Clarke said, “if it didn’t seem impossible to do so here.”

“Off you go,” Carlos replied, “just pretend you’re in London.”

A snigger, then they both lay down flat on their backs on their blankets.

“What an incredible number of stars,” the boy said.

“It’s an impressive sight, isn’t it?”

“Each one in its spot, every single night. It’s incredible how they don’t all get mixed up.”

“It makes you feel so tiny looking up at them, so insignificant.”

“People always say that.”

“The thing is that faced with Nature, the obvious is the only thing to say.”

“How do you mean, Nature?”

“I mean, the world.”

“I thought Nature was things like the grass.”

“No; it’s everything.”

“Us too?”

“Us above all.”

“I wouldn’t change myself for anything or anybody.”

“You’ve spoken the first and last law of Nature. The stars aren’t replaceable either. Nor is a single blade of grass.”

“But I also think that anything in the world would really like to take my place. And in fact, I think they do so at every minute, without my even being aware of it.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head again. It’s as though Nature were to speak through your mouth — and perhaps it does.”

“It’s strange you don’t say ‘mother Nature.’”

“Is that the expression in Spanish as well? I didn’t say it, but I was thinking it. I thought it might sound odd in another

language.”

“You shouldn’t be so worried. It’s much nicer if you just let yourself go.”

“What’s that?” Clarke said, sitting up suddenly and staring at a huge white circle rising above the horizon.

“The moon,” Gauna said drily.

They watched it emerge in silence. Once it had risen above the horizon line, it seemed to shrink to its normal size.

“Mister Clarke,” Carlos said, “tell me something honestly: are you an atheist?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Gauna threw them a withering look as if they had both gone mad. The Englishman’s face dropped, and he said nothing. He felt strangely content at the youth’s admission, although he was convinced it was nothing more than a coincidence: he was an atheist after thinking it through, Carlos before having done so. But that was also a kind of coincidence, perhaps all the more striking for not being on the same level.

At that very moment, in the deep silence of the night, they heard a dry barking sound close by.