Cesar Aira - The Hare

“Really? Is he very good-looking?”

Miltín threw him a look which combined a hint of sarcasm and something darker, but merely said:

“In your style.”

Clarke, who knew he was not particularly handsome, said nothing. Then he asked:

“Yet it seems that the Widow. .”

“So it seems. Namuncurá could be playing a double game. On the one hand, it’s said that a long time ago, before her marriage to Rondeau, she had twins. That kind of predisposition is very valuable. It’s also possible that the rumor in fact started after Namuncurá began to pursue her. On the other hand, he could be after what no Indian leader has had before: a warrior queen, someone who is a political force in her own right, which could make up for the lack of twins — because when it comes down to it, that is nothing more than a shadow game.”

“It all seems rather far-fetched,” Clarke commented.

“Even so, it has a rational basis. You should judge by results, not by intentions.”

“But is it certain that Namuncurá is with the Widow? There were other versions circulating in Salinas Grandes about where that woman was, and what she was doing.”

“Ah, yes? What were they?”

As Miltín himself had said, he made no attempt to hide his curiosity. Clarke thought it wiser not to give him the latest news: he would surely find that out from another source, and he had been recommended to keep silent.

“I’m not sure, but as far as I understood, I think they were even afraid she might attack them.”

“Bah! they always say the same. As if the great Mapuche empire had anything to fear from a poor woman and her band of madmen. What is certain is that this time Namuncurá is risking everything, because word has it that the Widow is preparing for her final withdrawal to the Andes, where she came from originally. It seems she considers her time on the plains is drawing to a close.”

A loud snort from Gauna distracted Clarke. It seemed the tracker had been paying them close attention, and Miltín’s final words had startled him. But they were unable to continue their conversation, because a sudden argument had broken out among the Indians around the fire. The din was infernal. While Clarke had been talking, part of his mind had been following the stages of the Indians’ increasing drunkenness. He had heard them go through the “how much I love you, brother” stage; now they had reached the inevitable aggression and insults. Miltín had also continued to drink while they talked, and when he went to mediate in the dispute, he was every bit as inebriated as his followers. His intervention only served to make matters worse. By now, all of them were shouting in hoarse, slurred voices. The firelight added an extra glow to bodies which were already starting to lock in conflict. The funniest thing (or rather the only funny thing, because everything else was so sad in its degradation) was that they kept accusing each other of being drunk: “pie-eyed Indian! pie-eyed Indian!” they repeated like maniacs. And Miltín, the drunkest of all: “pie-eyed Indians!” They were taking it out on one man in particular, as drunk as the rest of them, who apparently had said something insulting about the tribe’s team — because the original argument had been about hockey. The outcome of the quarrel was as rapid as it was unexpected, and for the three white men as terrifying as a bad dream. A knife suddenly glinted among all the shining greased muscles, then its blade opened a wide slit in the throat of the arguer. It seemed that the killing was something that agreed with their chieftain, who was shouting and reeling about. The shock paralyzed Clarke, but not the Indians. In a further frenzy of meaningless violence, they repeated the slash (and even its shape) in the round, inviting belly of the dead man, then plunged their hands into the wound and began to pull out his intestines, with shouts that ranged from fury to amusement. The Englishman leapt up as if activated by a lever. He was overcome with an irresistible urge to re-assert humanity. He wanted to cry out something earth-shaking, but all he could manage, in imitation, was “Pie-eyed Indians! pie-eyed Indians!” Carlos and Gauna tried to hold him back, but unsuccessfully; he was also in his cups, and the alcohol made him reckless. He pushed his way through to the dead body, howling all kinds of insults against the killers and profaners; as best he could, he snatched the slippery guts from them and clumsily tried to stuff them back into the wound; since he was seeing double, he pushed some ends into the gaping throat. Fortunately, the Indians thought this was just another joke, otherwise they might well have stabbed him too. Miltín raised a glass above the scrum and called a toast, but Clarke, raging like a madman, knocked it from his grasp.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” muttered the drunkard.

“Animals, wild beasts!”

“What are you saying?”

The pair swapped the grossest insults. Luckily, neither of them could hear the other, because the Indians were shouting even louder than them. Clarke kept feeling at his belt in search of a revolver he had not worn for fifteen years; Miltín slipped and fell to a sitting position and stayed there, howling like a banshee.

Happily, outside the circle of violence, Gauna had retained a minimum of sangfroid. He sent the boy to grab Clarke, while he himself went to round up the horses. With the greatest difficulty, seeing he was in no great shape himself, Carlos succeeded in dragging Clarke some distance from the fire, where Gauna caught up with them and made them mount up.

“Animals, animals!” Clarke shouted, among other things.

The Indians did not even bother to prevent them leaving. Perhaps they were in no state to do so. What they did do was launch all kinds of scabrous taunts in their wake. One in particular, a man with a formidable voice, shouted after them for a long while. Clarke was sobbing with indignation and nerves. It was the moon which finally calmed him down. They rode on for two hours, at random of course, the main thing being to put distance between themselves and the camp. They halted when Carlos fell straight off his horse with a dull thud. The chill of the night had cleared Clarke’s head a lot, and he was worried by the fall, but the boy lay fast asleep and snoring on the ground. They spread out their things there and then, and, surrendering themselves body and soul to the mercies of the night, slept like logs.

The next day, as was only to be expected, their timetable was turned upside down. They slept all morning: since it was cloudy, the sun did not wake them. Then they rode for a while, their heads throbbing and their stomachs churning. What few comments they made were about the disgusting murder and how savage the Indians were. Gauna was even more taciturn than usual; it was obvious that he was obsessed by some idea. They were fortunate enough to come across a picturesque stream, where they bathed to refresh themselves from the heat of a gathering storm, then they drank a hasty cup of tea, and took a siesta. The rain woke them. Sheltering beneath the trees, they waited a long while for it to cease, and when it eased to a drizzle, they set off in the gloomy dusk. It continued to rain off and on, but since they were neither hungry nor sleepy, they continued to ride until, around midnight, the sky cleared and the moon came out. Immediately, they halted to make a fire, then, in marked contrast to the previous night, spent a short time sitting round it in silence, and soon fell asleep.

The next day was one of brilliant sunshine and gentle breezes. Their spirits lifted, the bad dream was left behind. The air was so clear that the horizon, perhaps the only thing to be seen, stood out with a special clarity. They could almost make out the far side of it, as if the line had become crystalline, a prismatic extension that divided the visible from the invisible, and broadened perspective beyond the normal. And it was precisely at this point that they saw the wanderer whose changing position had given the Englishman such cause for reflection.