Juan José Saer: Scars

I crouch, setting the breech on the ground and resting my cheek against the cold barrel. Then she turns around and looks at me.

— What are you staring at like an idiot? she says.

— Nothing, I say.

— There’s no canoe out here, says the girl.

— Later, after this, I say, standing up.

They walk toward me, away from the lake. The girl stoops and picks up a snail from a strip of damp, reddish ground at the edge of the water, where our tracks appear.

Then she stoops and picks up another snail, then she runs a few meters away and picks up another. I see her running, sharply, leaving a trail of small impressions on the reddish strip and then bending toward the ground as though she’s been hit by something, straightening up again and running again, moving farther off and then returning quickly toward us, growing in size, with the three snails in her hand. She hits the girl’s hand and the snails fly out and fall back to the strip of reddish earth.

— Leave that mess alone and don’t get yourself dirty, she says.

— She’s not hurting anyone, picking up snails, I say.

— You’re not the one who’s going to be washing all her clothes, later, are you? she says.

I bend over and pick up the snails and give them back to the girl, who puts her hands together and receives them in the cup formed by her two palms.

— If you don’t take me out in the canoe like you promised, I’m not letting them go and I’m getting everything dirty, she says.

— Why don’t we just give her whatever wants? she says.

— If she picks up three snails nothing’s going to happen and no one’s going to die, I say.

She turns around and looks toward the city.

— Aren’t those the warehouses at the train station? she says.

— Yes, I say. Those are the warehouses. And over there behind them are the grain elevators in the harbor.

— And isn’t that the city offices? she says.

She points to a blurry, white mass rising above the cluster of buildings and foliage.

— I’m not sure, I say.

— Alright, she says. Are we going back or are we staying out here for the rest of the year?

— Let’s stay, Papi, says the girl. For the rest of the year.

— Alright, I say. We’ll stay out here for the rest of the year.

— That’s great, I say. For the rest of the year.

— What do you think, Gringa, I say. Should we stay for the rest of the year?

— Huh? I say. Huh? The rest of the year? What do you think?

— Alright, I say. Don’t make that face.

I walk up to her and touch her face with my palm. She throws her head back, grimacing, and then lunges out of reach.

— Don’t get smart, she says.

— We’ll just get one more duck and then we’ll leave, I say.

— Can I keep the snails, Mami? says the girl.

— Fine, you can keep them, she says, but careful getting your clothes dirty because if you do you’ll pay for it.

I turn around. In the distance there’s the green strip of the hill of eucalyptus, and the expanse of the meadow before it. We move away from the water, to the left of the hill of eucalyptus. She and the girl follow behind. I feel the grass snapping under their shoes. Suddenly, some twelve meters away, a duck flaps and rises from the meadow. It flaps noisily, gaining altitude, but then rises in a straight line, like a bullet. I aim. The animal’s black, compact body slides obliquely through the gray sky without leaving the sight by even a millimeter. I pull the trigger and feel the recoil of the blast against my shoulder. The duck continues sliding in an oblique line into the air. I put it in the sights again, at a greater distance, and pull the trigger a second time. For a moment it looks like it’s been nailed to something in the sky, because it flaps briefly, desperately, without advancing or falling. Then it falls, in a corkscrew shape, flapping and thrusting its legs, and disappears in the pasture. The three of us move quickly, looking for it, snapping the grasses as we move. She’s panting, and the girl moves ahead. We stop at the spot where we’ve seen it fall, and we start walking in circles, separating the grasses with our feet. The grasses bend and snap, and here and there we sink in up to our knees.

— Without dogs you’re just farting around out here, I say.

— It’ll show up, she says. It has to be here somewhere.

— I obviously hit it full on, I say.

— Are you sure it fell around here? she says.

— Absolutely sure, I say.

— I specifically saw it fall here. It was flying toward the lake and I shot it right around here, I say.

— It might have walked away, I say.

— I’m going to wring its neck when I find it, she says. So it learns not to get smart.

We keep walking in circles, making the grasses snap under our feet. Each of us forms our own circle in the middle of the open space, and every so often the circles intersect. They overlap each other and are confused.

— My legs are a mess, she says.

— Should we leave it? I say.

— Here it is! says the girl, crouching and half disappearing into the grass.

We struggle toward her, running, getting twisted up in the tallest grasses. When we reach her we stoop. I can hear her panting in my left ear. The duck is lying there, alive, under a cover of wild grass, looking at us with distrust.

— Trying to escape, huh? I say.

One of its wings is broken. I shot it right in the joint; its feathers are decimated and bloodstained near the root.

— Poor thing, she says.

When I reach out, the animal flaps. I grab it by the feet and pick it up. It twists desperately, flapping and snapping its beak furiously but weakly.

— I’ll hold it Papi, says the girl, throwing away the snails and wiping her hands.

— Careful, I say.

I hand it to her. She grabs it by the legs and raises it to her face, to see it better.

— Did you see its eyes, Papi? she says.

— Alright, she says. We’ve got the second duck. Are we going now or not?

— No, I say. We’re staying for the rest of the year.

— So funny, she says.

— We’re going to drink us a gin, we’ve earned it, I say.

— Already onto the gin, she says, laughing.

— Papi, what happens if I carry it by the neck? says the girl.

— Nothing happens, I say. But careful not to let it get away cause if it gets away I’m likely to snap your head off.

— No, says the girl.

— They’ve probably stolen everything from the truck by now, she says.

— And there was so much for them to take, I say.

— There was the plates and the towels and your watch, which I put in the glove compartment, she says.

— You two go ahead, I’ll be right there, I say.

She looks at me suspiciously.

— We’ll be waiting there all night, won’t we? she says.

— I said I’ll be right there, I say.

— I’ll be there in a minute, I say.

— Alright, but just a minute, she says. If more than a minute goes by, I’m taking the girl and we’re walking out.

— Alright, Gringa, I say, laughing.

They start walking away, toward the hill of eucalyptus. They don’t move in a straight line, but a curved one. They’re walking from the left edge of the meadow to the right side of the hill of eucalyptus, behind which the truck is parked. I watch them move with difficulty across the vast open space, and she is swallowed up to her waist every so often by the grass, and the girl completely. Then I crouch, pull down my pants, and do my business. I clean myself with some grass. Afterward I remain crouched, staring at a fixed point in the grass, not seeing anything. The shotgun is lying on the ground, next to me. The wooden breech has been polished by wear. The weight of the shotgun flattens the grass. Then I stand up, button myself up, pick up the shotgun, and start moving toward the hill of eucalyptus, watching their tiny figures, her and the girl, in the distance, shaking the grass and sinking into it and then reemerging completely every so often in places where the grasses are thinner. Sometimes they seem to struggle in one spot, without advancing. They are the only things in motion in a motionless expanse. I don’t even hear the grass snapping under my shoes. Once or twice I stop, the first time to load the shotgun, the second to look back at the lake and the city beyond. The light is fading in the sky. Its gray color has turned smokier, and a black lining has formed around the heavier clouds. About three hundred meters from the hill of eucalyptus, a black bird shoots up from the grass, flying toward me and then changing direction suddenly toward the hill when it sees me. I take aim and set its quick black body in the sight. I pull the trigger and it falls suddenly, in a straight line, without flapping its wings once, like a stone, although a stone would have exploded into sparks upon receiving the birdshot, for sure. I look toward where it has fallen and hesitate a second, but then I keep walking toward the hill. When I get back the girl is sitting in the cab, pretending to drive, and she’s sitting on the ground, reading a comic book.