Cesar Aira - The Hare

“Whose side will you be on?”

“Me? Nobody’s. It’s for them to sort it out.”

“Begging your pardon, your Majesty, but you said you were interested in foreign affairs. That’s quite logical. All the more so considering the fact that the Mapuche federation is in a state of organic equilibrium from Tierra del Fuego up to Córdoba. I don’t understand therefore how you cannot be concerned about the key element in that equilibrium, which is Cafulcurá.”

“That’s because I base my effectiveness on other premises. To be concerned about one individual thing is to lose sight of the whole. Take you, for example, what is it you do?”

At last he’s asking me, thought Clarke. “I’m an English naturalist.”

“A contemplative person?”

“To some extent. It could be said I practice an active kind of contemplation.”

“What area do you work in?”

“Animals, mostly. Although it’s impossible to rule out everything else, because Nature, as you just pointed out, is a whole.”

“Did I say that? Look, what do you think about the duck?”

“What duck?”

Coliqueo thought for a moment. Eventually he said:

“Cafulcurá is full of animal stories. He must have told you lots.”

“Some, but not all that many. One of his shamans told me more. .”

“Which one?”

“One called Mallén.”

“Is that cheap charlatan still around? I can just see him, forever

peddling his stale repertoire of worthless tricks. Goodness, what a sad lot they are. They’re caught in a mechanism where they can’t change any of the parts, because none of them is real. You’re a scientist: you see one animal for example, then another. . you make a note of the first, then the second, you think about it, you trust in the grandeur and variety of the world. But them. . what a difference!”

“They’re different cultures.”

“No, sir. That is to use the concept of culture as an excuse to sanction mediocrity, to persist in superstition and brutishness. They are like children, fascinated by their toys.”

By this point Clarke, a victim of his companion’s supreme self-deception, had come to regard him as wise and thoughtful. He yielded to this optimism:

“My position as observer, Mister Coliqueo, allows me to take advantage of whatever perspective the people I meet have adopted. The Huilliches’ is one of many. Yours is another, much more rational one. . ”

“Look, you and I understand each other. You wouldn’t have time to do a spot of work for me, would you? I could pay you well, and I’m sure your studies would benefit from it.”

“Well. . I’m in the middle of an investigation.”

“You aren’t looking for Cafulcurá, are you?” the chieftain asked jokingly.

“What work is it?”

“It concerns everlasting peace, no less. You would be performing a true service for these lands, with little effort, and at the same time it would remove you from that circle of nonsense which, whatever you may say, your Huilliche friends must have ensnared you in. I’m talking about reality, tangible things, things that can be thought about without a sense of shame. I suppose you have heard about the question of everlasting peace. The Mapuche federation, which has fought within itself for centuries, has finally brought the clearest of its logic to bear on that radiant point which is everlasting peace: the end of time, the dawn of life. Do you believe it’s possible?”

Clarke did not know whether to say yes or no.

“I’m glad you’re hesitating,” Coliqueo said, “because in fact the reply lies elsewhere. Did you believe those animal legends that Mallén told you?”

“Of course not.” How stupid of him! Clarke thought afterward. He had walked straight into the trap.

“Good for you. One of those legends is that of a duck’s egg with two yolks, from which will come two identical ducks, who will swim at dawn on a secret southern lake: and that will be the day of everlasting peace.”

A silence. Clarke had not the faintest notion of what was coming next.

“Well, the job I had in mind is for you to get that duck’s egg for me. With all your knowledge, and with time at your disposal which I don’t have because of all the problems I have to contend with here, and above all with a mind like yours free from prejudice, you’ll find it in no time. And then I’ll be the true emperor.”

Clarke’s astonishment was like a mental earthquake. He suddenly realized that everything he had been listening to, with such naive consideration, was nothing more than the ranting of a complete madman. What a waste of time! It was then that Coliqueo proffered his final sentence from on high:

“The duck’s egg is the most effective of all.”

“I need to get some air. If you’ll excuse me. .”

Clarke stood up.

“Yes, off you go. We’ll meet later. Think it over.”

Clarke left the tent taking great gulps of air. Nobody likes to be made a fool of, especially when faced with the demanding jury represented by the inner scruples of an Englishman with a good education. Together with the air, Clarke sucked in all the images around him, to clear his mind. The Voroga camp seemed less miserable than it had that morning. The blue of the afternoon sky, the children’s cries, the constant to-ing and fro-ing of the loose horses, the glances of the Indian women — everything drew him back to a normality he had momentarily felt tremble beneath his feet. He walked toward the gully where they had left their troop of horses and their gear. Aristídes Ordóñez was sitting keeping watch. Clarke asked where Gauna was.

“I don’t know,” the gaucho said, “he left me to look after things, but that was a long time ago. He’s not come back, and I have to leave.”

“Yes, off you go. Many thanks.”

Clarke was left on his own. A few minutes went by, and he began to regret having come to replace Ordóñez. He was stuck there now until nightfall, because there was little hope that Gauna and Carlos would interrupt whatever they were doing to come and see if he needed them. And if he so much as budged, everything would be stolen, down to their stirrups. He decided at least to enjoy his solitude. He lit his pipe, and began to smoke staring at the river, which flowed past beneath him. It was a small, treeless stream; the little water it contained was far from clean. At the top of the riverbank lay the untidy assortment of tents. Many of the Indians had come out like him to enjoy the fresh air. The Vorogas looked exactly the same as the Huilliches, except that they spoke a different language; once out of earshot, this distinguishing feature naturally disappeared. And yet it was still there. Since in reality nothing is imperceptible, thought Clarke, the difference was absolute, and involved their entire appearance. And the difference could be summed up by saying that in Salinas Grandes the Indians lived outside life, whereas here they were inside it. He had landed directly in the realm of fable, which he had taken to be real; now he had to get used to the idea that this fable was merely an island in the ocean of normal life. Plebeian and westernized, the Vorogas were a reminder of the ordinary things in society. To be completely ordinary, all that was needed was for them to work. Of course, there was no danger of them making that sacrifice, not even for aesthetic reasons.

Something in the river caught his attention. Something whitish was floating downstream at the leisurely pace of the murky current. He found himself unable to tear his gaze from the undulations of this large, soft object. It was only when it passed in front of him that he realized what it was: a man’s shirt, its arms slowly waving almost as if it were filled with a drowning body. It drifted on down the stream and disappeared round a bend, still in the center of the current, as slowly and as inexplicably as it had appeared. Clarke wondered if it might not be a passive kind of washing, by distance rather than by scrubbing.