Juan José Saer - Scars

The duck has disappeared into the gray sky, away from the city and toward the hill of eucalyptus. I continue toward the lake. I listen to the snapping grasses that I crush with my muddy shoes. I straighten up and turn around. The hill of eucalyptus is smaller now, and all I see is the green mass of leaves — a strip of green foliage more transparent at the upper edge. I keep going toward the lake.

I walk more than an hour. More. Every so often I crouch, setting the breech of the shotgun on the ground and touching the barrel to my cheek, and I look without seeing. I stare at some bare spot on the ground, where the grass is thin, and I look at the yellow leaves of the grass without seeing them. Sometimes my eyes stop on one blade, whose edges are withered and discolored by the frostbite, more withered the more they are exposed to the destructive air. I’ve been approaching and moving away from the edge of the lake, without ever reaching it. Finally I arrive, to where the water almost touches my feet. From there the city is like an arm’s length away, and the hill of eucalyptus is hidden. The water is smooth, gray.

I turn my head abruptly toward a duck that is taking off among the grasses, away from the lake. I take aim and follow it quickly with the sight, leading its body a shade, and pull the trigger. It shudders, convulses, flaps, and its flight stops suddenly, as though it collided with an invisible wall in the empty space. It falls straight to the ground, some fifteen meters from where I’m standing. When I get there, brushing aside the grasses, it’s still twitching, and it flaps two or three more times. Then it stretches out a leg and is still. I’ve hit it in the nape, and blood is splattered across its blue neck feathers. I pick it up by the legs and take it away.

Now I walk with my back to the city and the lake, toward the hill of eucalyptus. I have to walk a long way and then turn gradually to the right before I see the truck. Finally it reappears, behind the hill. When I’m close, I see her sitting in the cab, and the girl is coming to meet me. She grabs the duck.

— Is it dead? she says.

— Completely, I say.

I sit down on the running board with the shotgun at my feet.

— Hand me the gin, I say.

I speak in a loud voice, with my back to the cab, looking out toward the city.

A moment later I feel the bottle hitting me softly on the head. From what’s left in the bottle, I can tell she’s been drinking.

— Don’t make me carry you out of here later, I say.

— I’m hungry, says the girl.

She drops the duck into the truck bed, pushing it through the wooden stakes. Then she starts spelling out the words on the sign that is hanging from the stakes.

— Mo-li-no ha-ri-ne-ro ese ah , she says.

— Gringa, I say. This girl is hungry. And so am I. What did you bring us?

— Dogshit, she says.

— I know that, I say. But how’d you make it? Milanesa? Stewed? How?

— You’re a crook, she says. Stealing from the union.

That’s what she wants. It’s obvious that’s what she wants.

— Alright, Gringa, easy, I say. Tell us what kind of dogshit we have for lunch.

— Stealing from the union, she says.

— Mo-li-no ha-ri-ne-ro ese ah , says the girl.

I take a long drink from the gin. I close my eyes. I fill my mouth up with the gin and then let it fall into my stomach. It burns, going down. Meanwhile I screw on the lid. Then I put the gin on the ground, near the shotgun.

— Gringa, I say.

— What, she says.

— Don’t mention the union again, or I’ll get angry. Don’t make me angry. Aren’t we having a good time? We’re spending a day in the country, the whole family, it’s nice. Isn’t it nice? Behave yourself and get down from the truck because it’s time to eat.

— There’s milanesas and cheese and a bunch of stuff, she says.

I hear her moving around inside the cab and then get out, on the other side. She passes in front of me and reaches over the planks of the rails. She takes out the canvas bag and sits down on the running board. The girl sits down on the ground, in front of us.

— Careful with the shotgun, I say.

I pick up the shotgun and prop it between my legs. She takes out two or three packages from the canvas bag and leaves them on the ground. Then she takes out a bottle of wine.

— I forgot the corkscrew, she says.

She spreads a cloth over the ground and starts opening the cloth bundle on it. There’s cold milanesas, cheese, salami, and half a dozen hardboiled eggs. There’s also the three loaves that I wrapped up in the kitchen.

I hit the bottom of the wine bottle against the ground until the cork pops out. A stream of wine follows it and splatters us. We all laugh.

— Good times, I say.

We eat, and drink the bottle of wine.

— Let’s go back, she says.

— Now? I say. I want to try for another duck first.

— It’s going to rain, she says.

— Stop with that rain, because it’s not going to rain at all, I say.

— I want to go out in the canoe, Papi, says the girl.

— Shut your mouth, I say.

— Last night I dreamt that you were going to shoot that duck, says the girl. I dreamt that Mami and I were waiting here in the truck and that you walked to the lake and there were three shots and then you came back with the duck. I dreamt all of it.

I softly punch the door of the truck.

— Powerful machine, I say.

— If you’re going to shoot that duck then get going, she says. I’ll go crazy if I stay here another hour.

— You were crazy before we got here, I say. Before you were born.

— Alright, she says. Get going.

— Do you remember, Gringa, that time we went to Buenos Aires on May first? I say. There were a million workers there, at least.

— At least that many, she says.

I stand up. Maybe I’ll get another duck, I say.

I pick up the shotgun and point the barrels at her.

— Should I pull the trigger? I say.

— Cut it out, don’t be stupid, she says.

I point the barrels away.

— If you shut up and keep quiet, you can come with me, I say.

— Yeah, she says. And who’s going to watch our things?

— No one comes out here, I say.

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

She shrugs. Fine, let’s go, she says.

We start walking through the meadow, coming around, and after we’ve walked a couple of hundred meters, the truck has disappeared, blocked by the hill of eucalyptus.

I walk ahead. She and the girl follow. I can hear the grass snapping under our shoes. Sometimes it comes up no higher than my knees, and sometimes our feet sink into puddles that appear suddenly, hidden by the underbrush.

— This is bullshit, she says, behind me.

— The less you talk, the better, I say, not stopping or looking back.

— I’ll talk as much as I like, she says.

When I stop and turn around, the barrels are pointing at her. I point them down, at the ground.

— I said that if you came with me you would have to be quiet, I say.

La Gringa makes a face, but doesn’t say a thing.

We reach the edge of the lake, without flushing a single duck. She and the girl are staring at the city, their mouths open.

— That’s the Guadalupe cathedral over there, she says.

— And the suspension bridge, says the girl.

We walk along the shore. They’re going ahead now. Suddenly they stop, looking toward the city again. Their backs are to me, some five meters away. The barrels are pointing at them. I’m transfixed for a moment, staring at them. Nothing happens. There’s the lake, glowing, and the city beyond, and closer to me their silhouettes, sharply contrasted against the vast open sky. I ask myself if there’s anything that could erase them. But even if they were erased, they would still be there, always. There’s nothing for it. They’ll always be there. But I can’t lower the barrels. They’re standing there, apart, against the vast open sky. Their outlines glow, sharply. They’re still.