Cesar Aira - The Hare

They set off at once, pausing only for Clarke to grab his shotgun and Gauna to pick up a folded piece of paper that was proof of his identity. There was something frankly pathetic in his gesture. To climb a mountain in the middle of the night just to claim a fortune was taking greed a little too far. They left the horses where they were: they had no reason to stray, unless attacked by a puma, and there was nothing they could do about that. Their excitement, the time of night, and the lack of baggage lent wings to their feet. Before they were aware of it they were climbing the mountain, something their lungs soon became aware of. The animal life on the slopes was incredible: tiny owls, gophers, foxes, bats, armadillos started up in front of them at nearly every step. It was a paradise for small game; Clarke’s shotgun was scorching his hands, because he had decided to respect Gauna’s suggestion that they make as little noise as possible, not so much because he shared the gaucho’s belief that the Widow’s men were nearby, but more to humor him. The obliging moon lit up every clump of grass. When they glanced up, the mountainside looked daunting. It seemed it would take them a lifetime or more to reach the top. But when they looked down, they were surprised at how far they had already climbed. They could feel the mountain beneath their feet, the incomparable sensation of bulk that contrasted so sharply with their abstract progress across the flat plains. They said nothing, because breathing itself was difficult enough.

The moon moved further off and appeared to climb in the sky. It picked them out. They saw themselves as almost infinitely tiny, but at the same time gigantic as they scaled the hidden microlandscapes of the mountain. The moonlight bounced off the solid objects, which remained in darkness. Everything was duality. Even the high and low. Then all of a sudden they were very high up. They had been climbing without respite for three or four hours. The moon was still in the sky, a little smaller perhaps, and with a different shape, as though they were seeing it from the side; the same was true of the Milky Way. As for the shape of the mountain itself, by now it was all the same to them whatever it was. Clarke remembered that from down below it had seemed to him to be almost perfectly conical, with a broad base — like an Egyptian pyramid. From the heights, it was nothing more than a monstrously uneven piece of ground. Possibly when they reached the summit they would be able to appreciate its geometrical perspective more, though he doubted it. And anyway, night transformed everything. Being younger and lighter, Carlos was slightly ahead of the other two, whose legs were already heavy as lead. Gauna brought up the rear, panting as he climbed. All at once, they were surprised by a change in the surrounding darkness. This was because the moon had disappeared behind a mountain in the middle distance; which was further proof of how distorted their appreciation of everything was, as only a moment before it had seemed to be overhead, and probably had been. Now its light shone round the sides of the mountain, which gave off a bright clarity like a candle. Still, they found it harder to see where they were treading.

They were not able to worry about this for long, because several human shadows suddenly leapt out at them and in a flash had pinioned them to the ground. Gauna maintained his proud silence, but the other two let out shouts of rage. All three tried to resist, but in vain. The Indians tied their hands behind their backs, with sturdy leather thongs, bound their feet, then sheathed the daggers they had been waving menacingly at their throats. When their assailants had finished tying the three men up, they sat down to get their breath back, passed round a bottle of some kind of firewater whose smell filled the air, and began to talk. Their victims listened closely.

“Now,” one of them said, “we’re going to have to carry them.”

“Why’s that?” another one asked, as if it was not obvious.

“Because we tied their feet, that’s why.”

“You’re right,” a third or fourth person said, apparently suddenly catching onto something he could never have worked out for himself.

Another Indian, most probably the one whose idea it had been in the first place, came to the defense of tying their feet up: “First, it stops them running off. We wouldn’t be sitting here so relaxed now, passing round the bottle, if their feet were free and we had to keep an eye on them all the time. Second, they could kick you. . ”

“Once, a fellow I’d tied the feet of kneed me, so it’s no great guarantee.”

“That’s really weird, it could only happen to you. . ”

“No, hang on a minute. . ”

The argument became more personal. But it did not offer any clues as to who these Indians might be. They spoke a mishmash of the region’s languages; Clarke had taken it for granted they were the Widow’s men. Until the moon emerged from the side of the mountain in the distance, they were nothing more than confused silhouettes. They were ordinary-looking savages, wearing a thick coating of grease. As soon as the moonlight returned, the Indians stood up, removed the thongs from their captives’ feet (so in fact they had simply hobbled them like troublesome horses while they had a rest) and motioned them to climb in front of them. There were only four Indians, which would have been a cause for shame, had the three white men not had the excuse of being caught unaware. Their fears had proved correct: they had been ambushed. But there was one good thing about this mishap: their assailants would take them where they wanted to go, to see the Widow, and she might even be kind enough to have their hands untied, in which case the whole experience would have cost them nothing. They continued to climb for some time, following a diagonal path they would never have discovered for themselves, at least at night. They said nothing to each other, although they had the opportunity. The situation did not seem particularly threatening. Their captors seemed quite fierce, but they could hardly be otherwise; their role demanded it. At one especially steep point, the Indians came to a halt. Two of them stayed to look after the prisoners, while the other two loped off, triumphantly returning a few minutes later with a third individual. He peered at the faces of the three new arrivals, particularly Clarke’s, and eventually said:

“The lady will come to see you in a few minutes, if she can.”

Raising a doubt in this way was typical of the Indians. Before he withdrew, the messenger asked the others to untie their prisoners:

“They were being overcautious. All they were asked to do was bring you here.”

“We come in peace,” Clarke said.

“I would never have doubted it,” the Indian said as he left.

The three white men were untied. The four Indians who had brought them did not comment on the situation beyond giving a few nervous laughs, then offering them a drink. Clarke refused, but when Gauna took one, he changed his mind. He felt relaxed, and even slightly amused at how nervous the gaucho was. He wondered what it would be like to meet a half-sister for the first time, and decided it must be even odder than meeting a full sister. In the latter case, the encounter would completely fill the gap, whereas if it were only half a relationship, the missing half would continue to cast its shadow. . Clarke’s mind drifted off into these somewhat irrelevant speculations. The three of them were seated comfortably with their backs against a rock; Clarke in the middle, Gauna sweaty and agitated on his right, Carlos on his left. Clarke realized Carlos was nodding off.

“If you’re sleepy,” he said, “go ahead and sleep.”

“Not on your life. I wouldn’t miss Gauna’s meeting with his sister for anything in the world.”