Cesar Aira: The Hare

At that moment two elderly shamans came into the tent, bowing and whispering into Alvarito’s ear. Such was his interest in what they were telling him that he immediately uncrossed his eyes.

“Show him in,” he finally said to them, and to his two guests: “I must beg you to wait outside for me while I deal with a most important and pressing matter which has arisen. It will only take a minute, then I’ll be all yours. . to continue with our most interesting talk.”

Without ceasing for a moment to offer his apologies, he led them to the tent’s back entrance, where he gave instructions for them to be attended to. Several women were sitting in the shade of awnings; they at once laid out mats for them and offered them tea. As they then immediately returned to their entertaining conversation, Clarke and Gauna were left with nothing else to do than to stare out into the distance. From time to time, groups of horsemen sped by, without any obvious destination. The salt flats gave off a blinding dry white glare. One of the groups of riders had the effect of silencing the women, who all stared after them. The two men did not notice anything special about the riders, but from the comments that followed they learned that it had been Juana Pitiley, Cafulcurá’s favorite wife, who was setting off for Carhué to undergo a water treatment for her old bones. Alvarito’s wives were young (as he was also, since he could be no more than thirty), they had viper’s tongues, and there on the back porch of the tent they had an enchanting, ungroomed look: they looked far prettier when they were not smeared with their ceremonial grease.

After about an hour an Indian came out of the tent and said that Reymacurá begged them to excuse him, as his timetable had become terribly complicated, but he would come and see them that evening if he could find a free moment, etc., etc. Resignedly, Clarke walked round to the front of the spacious dwelling with Gauna, and the pair of them mounted and rode off.

They set off along the avenue containing the chieftains’ tents, until Clarke shook off the torpor that all the tea and the waiting had induced in him and asked himself in a sudden panic where they might be heading. He had no desire whatsoever to get into conversation with Cafulcurá again, or with anyone else for that matter. His head began to ache at the mere thought of it. He looked round him. Gauna was lost in his own thoughts, with a black look on his face, though there was nothing unusual about that. Clarke asked him what had happened to the young watercolorist, whom he had not seen since that morning.

“I think he went to bathe in the creek,” the gaucho replied.

“We could also go and cool off a bit, don’t you think?”

Gauna shrugged. He raised his arm and pointed to the far side of the encampment. “It’s over there.”

They sped off at a gallop. Repetido was marvelously docile. Because of the way the tents were lined up, and because Clarke felt he had no right as a guest to cut between them as the Indians did, they had to travel in a circle until they reached the perimeter of the capital, then turned sharply to the left. The plain dipped gently in front of them, and although the slope was almost imperceptible, they felt as though they were constantly pitching forward. Their mounts were happy. The clear air showed signs that the afternoon was drawing to a close. The sun was no longer as blinding as it had been throughout the day. From dawn to dusk, it gave the sensation that tiny prismatic crystals were floating above Salinas Grandes, reducing everything to a white sheen.

The river ran narrow and cool through beds of osiers. A large number of bathers had spent the day in its streams and on its banks. About two hundred horses were standing loose near an open, treeless beach which seemed to be the official bathing place. Indians were sleeping, sunbathing, or playing cards, while children scampered noisily in and out of the water. The two new arrivals dismounted and walked for a while. As they went upstream, they came upon groups of youngsters who were enjoying themselves in more secluded recesses. One of them was Carlos Alzaga Prior, who approached them, his hair dripping. They sat together on a grassy high bank overlooking a calm backwater.

“Have you been having a good time?” Clarke asked Prior, treating him familiarly because he was so young.

“First class. What about you two?”

There was a silence. Gauna was still wrapped in his own thoughts. Finally, Clarke said: “Not so good. These Indians are always talking to themselves.”

The youth burst out laughing, but they did not feel like joining in. The Englishman had come to think he had acted hastily when he had agreed to take Prior along. In fact, it had been very irresponsible of the young man’s parents to give him permission to undertake the journey to the perilous desert as though it were a trip round the family estate. Parents like that, Clarke surmised, were the sort who would most readily accuse him of being responsible if anything happened to their son, in a classic defense mechanism of laying the blame elsewhere. As for his artistic apprenticeship, that had obviously been an excuse, because Clarke had not even seen him pick up a brush. Prior gave them a detailed account of his prowess at swimming, diving, and so on. His chatter eventually wearied Clarke, who suggested he return to his friends. Prior did so at once, a broad smile on his face.

“What a child,” Gauna muttered when he was out of earshot.

“Señor Gauna, you were fifteen once,” Clarke chided him.

“But he’s been smoking something. Didn’t you see how dilated his pupils were?”

“The truth is, I didn’t notice.”

They sat in silence for a while. They gazed idly at people swimming by them in the river. Birds were singing in the trees. In front of them, the sun dipped toward the horizon.

“Tell me frankly, Señor Gauna, is something bothering you?”

“Lots of things.”

“Such as what?”

“For example, the fact that the Indians are such great liars.”

This interested Clarke. Not because he needed confirmation that they were caught up in a web of lies, but because it might be useful for him to know what reasons his tracker had for saying so.

“Take that story of the ‘hare’ which ‘took off,’” Gauna said, a sarcastic emphasis in his voice. “Did you believe that?”

“There wasn’t much to believe, that’s for sure.”

“But it’s as if they were making fun of us!”

Hearing this remark, the Englishman’s curiosity took on a defensive edge. There was no doubt Gauna was treating him as stupid, because it was to him that almost all the comments had been addressed. He asked Gauna for an explanation. Gauna had one ready, and Clarke could not deny it was both ingenious and surprising.

“They say: the hare ‘took off.’ In Mapuche, that verb can also mean ‘was stolen,’ ‘was made to vanish.’ We have no reason to know of these double meanings, so we understand it in its first sense, and they go on with the joke at our expense; even when you ask them if what happened is real or an interpretation, they can permit themselves to lie with the truth, as they always do. And between you and me, I reckon that ‘hare’ is the name they give to some valuable object. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed their habit of giving very valuable objects names. OK, so there’s a robbery. When we reach the spot where they’ve caught the thief, or an accomplice, who knows, they put on this horse ballet for us, stare up at the sky, play the fool, like that idiot Mallén. Meanwhile under our very noses, they are dealing with the culprit. . ”

“You mean that poor man who fell from his horse? But that was an accident!”

“Yes, an ‘accident’. . And on top of it all, that hypocrite Reymacurá starts to give you a metaphysics lesson! But he couldn’t help letting a few of the most obvious sarcasms escape, like that story about the father who lost his son. Can you tell me what on earth a tale like that had to do with anything?”