Juan José Saer - Scars

When the kettle starts to steam, I take it from the flame and carry it to the courtyard. I lean the shotgun against the wall and sit down in the low chair in the corridor. They go by with the things, packing the truck. She’s in front, with the bag, and the girl follows with a package. Now the courtyard, where they were, is empty. And it’s empty at the back end except for the black stumps I threw there, soaked from the week of rain. There’s just enough space between them for a person to lay down, the crown of the head touching one and the base of the feet on the other. She reappears from the street.

— Are we going or not? she says.

We’re going, I say. I put down the mate , inside the inverted lid to the kettle. I grab the shotgun from the wall and get up.

— Did you take the cartridges? I say.

— Yes, they’re in there, she says.

There’s the truck, in the street. The girl is waiting in the cab, looking straight ahead, through the windshield. There’s the railroad bed, intersecting the street, blinding it. There’s trees and ditches on both sides, and there’s the houses clustered in between the trees and beyond them the open land.

She gets in the truck and the girl sits on her lap. I cross the little bridge and get in the cab from the other side. Reddish mud filters up through the rubble they’ve used to pave the street. It stains my shoes.

I start the engine and we leave. We make an awkward U-turn at the corner and drive in the opposite direction until the Avenida del Oeste. We take the avenue to the boulevard and turn toward the suspension bridge. There’s no one out. At the mouth of the bridge there’s a gray sentry box. The structure vibrates as we cross. There’s an echo.

— It’s going to start raining any minute, she says.

We leave the bridge and turn onto the smooth blue road. It’s divided by a white line that shifts now to the left of the truck, now to the right, now between the front wheels.

— Hand me the gin, I say.

— I said hand me the gin, I say.

— I’m telling you to give me that bottle, I say.

Finally she unscrews the metal cap and gives me the bottle. I slow down and take a drink, straight from the mouth. She holds on to the cap. I hand back the bottle, not looking away from the road, and then I put both hands back on the wheel. We cross a bridge. Its iron and cement pillars slide backward quickly, flickering. She takes a drink from the mouth of the bottle too, then she caps it.

— You won’t even see the ducks, from drinking, she says.

I don’t say anything.

— Are we going in the canoe, Papá? says the girl.

— Sure we are, I say.

— Shut your mouth, she says.

— Let the girl talk, I say. She’s not bothering anybody.

There’s another bridge. Again the iron and cement pillars slide backward quickly, flickering, and the white line stops when the bridge starts and starts again when the bridge stops.

There’s the marshes around us, with their inlets and their squat trees and the wild grasses that don’t seem to move. The empty marshes, till the land touches the sky. The flat inlets that don’t even glimmer. On both sides, until the eyes get tired of looking. I press my foot down on the pedal, until it touches the floor.

— Thirty years old, this truck, and it runs like a clock, I say. It’s got some pickup in first. The ones they make today are tin cans.

— There’s a flock of whistling ducks, she says.

She points, stretching her hand out until it touches the windshield. The girl leans out over her knees to look. Slowing down, I do something similar. To the north, a group of black dots moves slowly into the distance against the gray sky, flapping, forming an angle, with the leader at the vertex. I say flapping but I don’t see any flapping. All I see is the angle of black dots, moving, and the empty sky.

— It’s going to rain any minute, she says.

— It’s not going to rain, I say.

I’m still leaning forward, and I look up at the flock again. High up, the angle of black dots, now slightly more open, with the leader at the front, moves to the north, in the vast empty sky.

We pass the checkpoint, where the road divides. The white line follows the curve of the road toward the water and separates from us. Now the truck is traveling along a straight strip of smooth, blue road, without a white line. We drive at least two kilometers past leafless trees and burnt fields. Then, at a squat motel building, we turn off. We leave the asphalt, and the truck jumps when it crosses the border that separates the asphalt from the wide, sandy plot in front of the motel. We pass alongside a cluster of bitterwoods with yellow leaves, onto a path of white sand packed down by the rain. At first there are houses on both sides of the path, obscured by the foliage, but soon there’s only the path that narrows as it penetrates the countryside. Sometimes clusters of plants jump out in front of the truck and the path slips away with a sharp curve. Suddenly a gate stops us. I get out of the truck, unhook the gate, and open it. I cross the opening, stop again, get out again, close the gate, and get back in, continuing on. Ahead there’s nothing but empty country, and at the end a large hill covered with eucalyptus. We drive along the path, with vast spaces of open country on both sides of us. The truck’s progress is labored and lurching. Finally we stop at the base of the hill, on the near side as we approached. Beyond the hill is a broad meadow, beyond that the lake — which isn’t visible — and beyond the lake, and higher up, the city. The columns of the suspension bridge are visible to the left, and to the right the towers of the Guadalupe cathedral. The gray sky is limpid, but tense. We get out.

She walks around briefly, close to the truck, and then takes some comic books from the cab. She sits down on the running board and starts flipping through them. I strap the cartridges to my belt and grab the shotgun from the truck.

— Papi, says the girl. When are we going in the canoe?

— Later, I say, and walk away.

I start moving across the meadow, where there’s no path. The grasses snap under my shoes. Every so often I step in a puddle and sink into it. I stop and turn around, seeing the truck a short distance away. She’s sitting on the running board, reading, and the girl has climbed onto the roof, looking in my direction; she makes a gesture with her hand. I turn around and keep walking.

I turn to the right, still moving toward the lake, and when I’ve walked a short distance more the truck disappears behind the hill of eucalyptus. I walk a little farther and then I stop, and am still.

I crouch. I prop the breech of the shotgun on the ground and rest the cold, blue metal barrel against my cheek. Through the grasses that here and there obscure my view, like a fog, I look at the city. Two columns of black smoke rise to the left, where the smoke stacks of the train station are vaguely visible. The smoke looks motionless, fixed, the upper border of the columns wider and thinner than at the bottom. In the other direction are the towers of the Guadalupe cathedral, and a tiny cottage, that can be sensed more than seen, projects through the foliage at the water’s edge. Then, for a moment, I don’t see anything else. I look without seeing. I don’t know how much time passes. I’m crouching, with the shotgun between my legs, my cheek resting on the cold barrel, looking without seeing. When I straighten up, my legs are cramped.

I load the shotgun and then start moving slowly, half-crouched, toward the lake. It’s visible now, about three hundred meters ahead. Suddenly, at eye level, about ten meters away, something takes off from the meadow. It flaps and picks up altitude. I aim, slowly following the flight of the duck with the sight on the shotgun. I raise my gaze and it gains altitude. Then I shift the sight just ahead of the duck’s body and pull the trigger. The blast, pregnant with the smell of gunpowder, makes a small cloud of smoke and presses the breech softly against my shoulder, but the duck keeps flying. I aim again, moving the sight just ahead of the duck’s body, and pull the trigger. I miss again. A trail of smoke rises from the barrel of the shotgun, and when I touch the barrel it feels hot. The gunpowder smell lingers. I unload the empty rounds and stick them in the cartridge belt. The golden bases of the cartridges wrap around my waist, extending evenly, identically, from the loops. The two that I’ve put back into the empty loops, discharged, are covered with stains and the primer is flattened. I take out two intact rounds, leaving the loops empty, and load the shotgun. Then I latch the shotgun and start walking again toward the lake.