Juan Saer - The Clouds

It was difficult to estimate the width of that wall of fire; what is known is that the blaze hugged the shore of the lake and extended northward, so at a given point the lake’s oval surface, with us inside it, the horses that a group of soldiers were trying at great pains to hold back (and only succeeding because they had hobbled and bound them), the dogs that had barked themselves weary, the wild animals that would not leave the water for anything in the world, and the birds flitting in the ruddy air, that watery mirror we had seen so placid and smooth at dusk, seemed an oval nightmare painted by a demented artist and framed in fire.

After a while, we realized daybreak had come but that the smoke was hiding the sunlight. And not only the smoke — as punctually as Osuna had announced, the Santa Rosa storms arrived from the southeast: It was the morning of the thirtieth. The fire passed by, continuing northward, and when the smoke began to clear, we saw the sky spotted with a few thick, blue-gray clouds. All around us, the blackened countryside was scattered with small, ruddy embers, like a night sky riddled with stars. From the ground, black as carbon, numerous little wisps of light and exhausted smoke sprouted, becoming invisible a meter up. We had not lost a single man, a single animal, a single cart. But although the fire had granted us a new term, now on its mindless northward way, we could not leave the water because the earth was still burning like the floor of a brick oven. The Basque climbed up on his cart, disappeared inside on all fours, and came back out with three bottles of gin, which he tossed in the air; the nimble soldiers, lively despite fatigue and the scorching heat, caught them. The bottles passed from hand to hand, and in no time their spirits were revived. Saved from the fire for unknowable reasons, they already had little to lose. By consuming us, the flames would have consumed our delirium as well, which was the only thing truly our own that distinguished us from the flat and silent land. And since the indifferent flames, almost scornful, had passed over without even stopping to destroy us, our delirium, intact, could begin to forge the world in its image again.

Heavy rain fell all day, pierced by fearsome lightning that was a new source of terror for us, and not only put out the embers and cooled the earth, but even restored the winter we had lost in the middle of our journey, having been upset by that improper summer’s disruption of the natural order of the seasons. Now, with winter back in its place, we could wait for spring. For two or three days we traveled slowly across a dead, black, ashen land, which an icy drizzle soaked and turned to a runny mixture of carbonized grass, mud, and ash. The sky was just as black as the earth and the water fell unceasingly, gray and glacial. We rode, weary, focused, numb, and clumsy, a little unreal, having almost forgotten, after so many ordeals, the reason for our journey. But on the fourth day, the burnt countryside was left behind, and in the direction we traveled, always southeast, a few glimpses of tender green could be discerned among the dead grass of winter’s end. On the fifth, the sun returned in a blue sky with not a cloud to be seen, and in the bright, rain-washed breeze, we encountered a few cowherds, and in the afternoon we just made out the first farmhouses. People greeted us as we passed and stayed to watch because of our strange appearance — since, dirty and blackened by sun and by fire, smoke, and ash, dead-tired and wretched, we seemed neither bitter nor resigned. In the courtyards, peach trees, with their usual impatience, were full of pink flowers. I wished a little more for myself than at the start of the journey, and the world, contrary to all reason, seemed kind that day. The next morning, some five hundred meters from the river, above the ravine, we caught sight of a long, white building and, at its base, three tall acacia trees. As in the fourth Bucolic, the Fates, at last, decreed it.

Juan José Saer was the leading Argentinian writer of the post-Borges generation. The author of numerous novels and short-story collections (including Scars and La Grande ), Saer was awarded Spain’s prestigious Nadal Prize in 1987 for The Event . Five of his works are available from Open Letter.

Hilary Vaughn Dobel has an MFA in poetry and translation from Columbia University. She is the author of two manuscripts and, in addition to Juan José Saer, has translated work by Carlos Pintado.