Cesar Aira - The Hare

“Welcome to our humble abode, Gauna, Carlos, and Mister. .”

“Clarke,” said the Englishman, who had not previously introduced himself

“Equimoxis, at your service.”

“What an odd name.”

“My mother had a priest name me: it was taken from a book found in an ox-cart wreck in the Andes many years ago. The book was called Memoirs from Beyond the Tomb .”

“I know it. By Chateaubriand.”

They had reached the end of the passageway; in front of them opened a vast chamber, made to seem all the larger for not being completely lit; the hundred or so fires that were burning produced as much effect as a match struck in a cathedral. There was no smoke, a sure sign there must be fissures in the roof of the cave which provided air. The clear, dark atmosphere, like that of a summer night, the cool temperature, the silence free even of the sounds of birds or insects, offered them a welcome that was far more eloquent than Equimoxis’s words.

“An underground city!” Carlos Alzaga Prior exclaimed in astonishment. “I never thought life would be so generous as to reward me with such an amazing discovery!”

“My dear young friend,” Equimoxis told him with a paternal smile, “it’s not a city since, as you can see, there isn’t a single house. It’s an interior-exterior. And as for discovering us, I fear you aren’t the first, far from it. Only last week, to go back no further, we had a visit from one of Rosas’s officers.”

They had set out on a stone path — or rather, they followed a line across the stone that they would have crossed anyway, toward a group of fires clustered together more closely than the others. A small party of Indians came to greet them. The Indians were naked (they must only wear clothes to go outside); a tall, white-skinned individual with fierce features stepped forward. This was their leader, Pillán.

“It’s an honor to have you with us. Which one of you suffers from asthma?”

“I do,” grunted Gauna, who hated any mention of his illness.

“Come over to the big fire; my wives are expecting you. I had a special preparation made up for you, from eucalyptus seeds, that’ll ease the problem in no time.”

Having done his duty in this way, Pillán addressed himself formally to Clarke, squinting as he did so.

“Words fail me. . ”

“Think nothing of it! We were in the area, and at a loose end.

. .”

“Mister. . Clarke, isn’t it? Your name sounds English.”

“I am English.”

“And what has brought you so remarkably far from your homeland?”

“Studies, nothing more.”

“Historical studies?”

“Natural history.”

“Botany? Zoology?”

“The second rather than the first.”

“Then I must show you the little dogs we keep. But after breakfast, if you’ll do me the honor of accompanying me.”

They went over to the fires. These Indians had few possessions. Little more than blankets and clothing carefully folded on the stones, and some very artistic pots, all of them out on display, nothing kept in trunks or bags. As is the case with natural and fortunate peoples, they themselves were their only riches. Except that, although for the moment they seemed relaxed and contented, they bore signs of not always having been so. Their bodies were crisscrossed with great weals, scars that had turned pink and scarlet due to the lack of sunlight. Their chieftain was the worst in this respect, his skin offering a veritable showcase of knife cuts. The raised area next to the fire where Pillán brought the Englishman and Carlos was occupied entirely by men. The women were further off: plump, attractive creatures whose aggressively indigenous features contrasted with their white, barely ocher, skins. Apart from those who were fanning the concoction designed to help Gauna’s breathing — which seemed to be doing him a world of good — the other women stood idly by. Clarke surmised that the Indians liked an easy life. He could tell simply by the way they moved. Not that they moved all that much, and besides, who could tell what was going on in the more distant chambers? There must have been about two hundred Indians sitting or lying about around fires that gave off a brilliant light but little heat (which was unnecessary anyway). The atmosphere was one of a calm evening get-together after a day’s hunting or traveling, a reunion that was drawing to an end as everyone considered

going to sleep, the only oddity being that it was ten in the morning. They were immediately served beer and cakes; the Indians limited themselves to watching them eat. When they had finished their meal, the conversation began.

“I envy you,” Clarke said impulsively, “the calm you enjoy in the. . underground.”

“It’s not always this way,” Pillán replied. “We’re a very warlike race.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“For countless generations.”

That was too vague to be the whole truth. But the Englishman, who out in the wilderness had become used to pursuing the truth by roundabout means, let this comment pass.

“Have you not tried directing your aggression against external enemies?”

“The thing is, we don’t actually have any enemies. It would cause too many problems. For a start, we’d have to go outside.” Pillán paused for a moment, then declared in a solemn tone: “As far as the vagaries of fate are concerned, we prefer to follow the line of least resistance.”

Clarke inquired about their means of subsistence. These were simple in the extreme: a little mining, some aphotic grains they used for making flour, a minimum of hunting and nighttime robbery. They obtained drink by bartering the high quality coal they dug from their caves. Their arts and crafts? These were reduced to two: not to tire themselves too much, and to congratulate themselves on anything that turned out well. They practiced a fair amount of gymnastics, and were comprehensively promiscuous in their enjoyment of sex. Most unusually for Indians, they had no interest in games of chance. They played music, mostly on portable organs such as Clarke had already seen in Chile. They did so very sparingly however, as any philharmonic excess might spoil what appeared to be their favorite social pastime: sleep. Recumbent bodies were scattered throughout the cave; all conversation was in low voices, and the dogs were silent. Occasionally a muted croaking could be heard: this was their edible frog farm, Pillán explained. Carlos was struck by the sight of several Indians gliding past them at ground level without moving a muscle, as though they were on a moving belt. The chieftain invited them to go and look: it was a stream of water on which small boats circulated. He told them that several of these streams crossed the chamber, as well as some freshwater springs. The Indians thought, quite reasonably, that the rock floor of the cave must float on a huge reservoir of deep water. The temperature was the same throughout the year. Gas never leaked out, nor were there any sudden seasonal falls in pressure. They could not recall any seismic activity — if there had been any, they would have left in a flash: for them, the caves had no mythical dimension, they were merely convenient, an effective way of living.

Thoughtful, Clarke stared up at the roof. The dark recesses cast back their blind gaze.

“Do you go outside much?”

“As little as possible. Some of us, never.”

One thing intrigued Clarke. He had known many tribes of America, with an incredible diversity of lifestyles, but one thing was common to them all: their constant and vital relationship with the stars. He could not imagine a primitive culture doing without them. He said as much to Pillán, who paused for a moment’s respectful consideration before giving his reply.