Cesar Aira - The Hare

“I took it as another example, and a very appropriate one. He was saying that a stolen child reappears as an adult somewhere else, and so establishes a continuity between different places and times.”

Gauna did not even bother to contradict him. Clarke had in fact taken this example (though he did not say this to Gauna) as a delicate touch by their Indian friend, because Clarke himself had been a foundling adopted and raised by a well-to-do middle-class family in Kent. It was hardly surprising that the Indians knew this, thanks to Rosas’s secret police, who were bound to have discovered it.

“And another thing,” Gauna went on. “An hour later, Cafulcurá’s wife sets out on a journey. Some coincidence, don’t you think?”

“But that fellow has thirty wives or more! There must always be one setting off on a journey somewhere.”

“But precisely that one, Juana Pitiley, the only one who is rich and powerful?”

He had really gone too far with his suspicions. The Englishman thought it better to change tack, and offered a kind of abstract summing up of their discussion.

“Words in Mapuche seem to have pretty unstable meanings.”

“No more so than in other languages.”

“I can assure you that’s not true of English.”

“I don’t know English, but if I look at Spanish, it’s just as ambiguous. For example, you can give your own name to anything you like: that tree, for instance — look at those low branches, don’t they look like a chair? If I came to have my siesta here every day, I’d end up calling that tree ‘chair.’. .”

“Good God!”

Gauna closed his mouth. After a while, he opened it again:

“And anyway, you can’t deny there’s a contradiction in the very fact of their speeches. We all know that savages show ‘an invincible repugnance toward speaking, except when it is absolutely necessary.’ Yet you yourself said a while ago that your head was spinning from all the chitchat you had to put up with. So that these people’s game consists in finding ‘absolute necessity’ where we see nothing but smoke rings.”

“And that seems suspicious to you too?”

“Yes, sir! Very suspicious!”

“Tell me something, Gauna, you don’t talk like a gaucho. Did you go to school as a boy?”

At that, Gauna lapsed back into being a gaucho again, mute and introspective. He gazed down at the tracks the busy ants were making on the ground. Tearing off a blade of grass, he chewed on it, then finally seemed to make up his mind:

“Of course I went to school. I. .”

That was as far as he got, because the reappearance of Carlos Alzaga Prior made him fall more silent than ever. The boy came to tell them he was going back to the tents with his new-found friends.

“But who are they?” Clarke wanted to know.

Carlos offered to show him, beaming like an idiot all the while. He led Clarke up a nearby bank and pointed out a group of young men and women. Most of the women had bulging stomachs in various stages of pregnancy.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you!”

“No, thanks.”

A lot of people were diving into the water.

“Did you have a swim?” Carlos asked him.

“The truth is, I’d love a dip.”

Carlos encouraged him to have one. The sun was still high enough for him to dry off afterward. They agreed to meet at dinner time. Clarke undressed and dived into the water, which turned out to be freezing. He was quite a good swimmer, and the exercise relaxed him; what with being on horseback and having to squat for all the conversations, he was very stiff. By the time he got out, Gauna had gone. He threw himself down on the grass and dozed. The sky had turned pink, the birdsong became more evocative, haunting. He saw some huge wild cattle lumber down for their evening drink. Through the leaves of the trees, in his drowsy state, he watched as the sky became a dark blue, and the tree trunks slowly turned black.

When he returned to the beach, there were only a few Indians left. They all greeted him with elaborate courtesy. His horse stood waiting. He set off at a walk in the dusk.

At night, everything was fire. In the universal classification, the Mapuches were a fire culture. They lit them on any excuse, and enjoyed them immensely. At every step, near and far, fires, torches, bonfires shone out, creating marvelous reflections on the bodies of the Indians, whose nightly pleasure was to daub themselves in grease from head to foot. Neither Cafulcurá, nor Alvarito, nor any of the main chieftains appeared, busy as they seemed to be with their political conversations. Gauna and Clarke ate grilled meat with some tight-lipped ministers: Carlos Alzaga Prior came by for a minute to say he would be spending the night with friends. Gauna, who had not managed to take a siesta, retired early. Clarke sat for a while outside the tent, smoking a pipe, watching the fires and the Indians passing by. He was about to go and lie down when Mallén appeared.

“How are you, Mister Clarke, have you eaten?”

“Scrumptiously.”

“I’m glad. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to look after you properly, but something urgent cropped up. . you know how it is.”

“Oh, yes? Something urgent? A war? I suppose you couldn’t tell me anyway?”

“No, no. Nothing that serious, trifles really, the same as usual.”

“But you yourself told me yesterday that it wasn’t usual for you to be so busy.”

“That’s true, but you will admit that sometimes, the usual can pile up.”

“True enough.”

“By the way, tomorrow there is a gap in the protocol, and Cafulcurá asked me to convey his invitation to you. For my part, I should also like to offer you a rather fuller apology for our lack of courtesy.”

“I’m all ears.”

Mallén had not sat down. The two men were standing talking next to the entrance to the tent, and the shaman darted a glance inside. He seemed unwilling to speak there, as if afraid Gauna might be listening. This was a groundless fear, as they could both clearly hear the gaucho’s snores.

“Let’s walk a little, if you’re not tired.”

They set off in the direction of the nearest bonfire.

“I trust your tent is comfortable.”

“Fine, thank you. Are you expecting Namuncurá soon?”

“Not at all. He could be away weeks if he feels like it.”

Clarke had been surprised at being lodged in the tent of the chieftain’s son and heir, who was away on a trip. Especially since all the man’s wives were still in occupation.

When they had walked some distance, Mallén began to stammer, in the typically ceremonious manner which meant he was about to say something he had previously thought over.

“In the first place, I’d like to say how sorry I am that your visit has coincided with these. . shall we say, special circumstances. All this surveillance, all these security measures. . they must have been a burden to you.”

Although Clarke had been unaware of anything of the sort, he thought it wiser to keep quiet.

“But how were you to know that Cafulcurá is to celebrate his seventieth birthday soon, and that he is cautious enough to take some old-standing prophecies seriously? Cautious isn’t the word!. . Well, with him, one never knows. I also wanted to talk to you about that. I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying that certain of our chieftain’s characteristics must have seemed to you, at the very least, surprising. I don’t intend to make excuses for him, but some of them do have their explanation. I’ve known him for countless years now, and I think I understand him better than anyone. So I beg you to take what I am going to say as a corrective to your impressions, but one that in no way implies any disrespect for your perspicacity. Bear in mind that this incoherent old man, high on grass, who gave you all the rigmarole about the continuum, has for the past fifty years borne on his shoulders all the responsibility of governing an empire made up of a million souls scattered throughout the south of the continent, and has done, and will continue to do, a pretty good job. From his youth onward, Cafulcurá has worshipped simplicity and spontaneity. But one can’t help thinking, and as soon as one does, all simplicity goes to the devil. And also, to be truly spontaneous, one would have to say ‘spontan ie ty,’ wouldn’t one?”