Juan José Saer - Scars

— It’s dead, Papi, the girl says when she sees me.

I throw myself on the ground, next to her. She doesn’t even look up from the magazine. The girl gets down from the truck and comes toward me with the dead duck. She holds it out, in front of my face. The duck hangs from the girl’s hand, by the neck.

— It’s dead, did you see? she says.

She holds it out in front of my face, by the neck. I slap it away and the dead duck flies off and falls to the ground with a dry, dirty sound.

— You’ll stain my clothes, I say.

The girl picks up the duck and throws it in the truck bed, inserting it between the boards and letting it fall. She goes back and forth between the pages of her magazine, to check on what she’s just read and line it up with what’s happening on the page she’s reading. Then she reads the entire page again and turns it and starts reading the next one.

— Hand me that gin, Gringa, I say.

— Yeah, she says, her voice distracted, not stopping her reading and not making any other movement than turning her head slowly, to follow the frames.

— Give it here, I say.

— Huh? she says, not looking up from the magazine.

She’s right next to me, within reach, I’m lying on the ground, face up. There’s the green bottle, next to her, between her and the truck. There’s the girl, behind us, killing time around the truck bed.

— I said hand me the bottle, I say.

— I’m getting sick of telling you to give me that bottle of gin, Gringa, I say.

— Are you going to hand it to me or not? I say.

I slap the magazine away and it flies through the air, loudly, and lands on the running board and then on the ground. I turn around, quick, just before her hand can hit me in the face. Her hand hits the ground. I roll away from her.

She crawls toward me.

— Don’t let me catch you, she says.

— It was a joke, Gringuita, I say, laughing.

I get up. She stands up too and starts chasing me. I turn away and lunge, laughing. When I look back at her, still running, I see her furious expression. I run to the back of the truck and hide behind the girl. She approaches, running. I lean on the girl’s shoulders and push her softly. She gets tangled up in the girl, shoves her, slides away, and then chases me around the truck. Finally she sits down on the running board, panting, and picks up her magazine. I go up to her, panting too, smiling. I kneel down and pick up the green bottle.

— Alright, I say. I’ll let you give me one knock on the head. But just the one, huh? Don’t take advantage.

I close my eyes, waiting, but nothing happens. When I open them again, she’s looking at me with her eyes wide open, remote. The rage is gone.

I pick up the bottle of gin and examine it in the fading gray light.

— You barely left a drop, I say.

I unscrew the cap and drink what’s left in the bottle. Then I get up, take a few steps away from the truck, and throw the bottle as hard as I can into the meadow. The green bottle makes a stiff curve in the air, diminishing as it moves away, and then falls between the grasses and disappears.

She goes on reading. I sit down next to her, on the running board, and wrap my arm around her shoulder. She doesn’t even seem to notice that there’s an arm around her shoulders. I start to exert pressure, pulling her heavy body against mine.

— Come here, next to me, I say.

— Come on, Gringuita, I say.

— Stop, she says.

— I said stop it, she says.

— Are you going to stop or not? she says.

But then she relaxes and falls into my shoulder. There’s the meadow ahead of us, extending toward the lake. It’s empty. My arm slides from her shoulder to her smooth, white neck. Her open mouth presses against my hard jaw. I can feel the dampness of her soft lips against my jaw. Difficult to erase.

In a low voice she says, I’m going to keep you up late tonight.

— Yes, I say.

Her entire soft body covered in her cotton clothes is pressed to my side.

— Let’s go, she says.

— Yes, I say.

— Now. Right now. Let’s go, she says.

— Yes, I say.

She pulls herself away suddenly.

— I’m tired, she says.

I get up. The shotgun is on the ground. I pick it up. I take out the empty cartridge, slip it into the belt, and replace it with a fresh one. I look up at the sky.

— It’ll be dark soon, I say.

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

— The ducks start coming down to the water about now, I say. Do you want to go see them?

I give her a very quick, knowing look. She looks me in the eyes. Then she looks quickly at the girl.

— It’s getting dark, she says, half laughing.

— Come on, I say.

She turns toward the girl, who has climbed onto the back of the truck and is staring motionless into the horizon beyond the meadow.

— Your papá and mamá are going to the lake and will be back really soon, she says. Don’t move from this spot, and behave, understand?

— I’m coming too, says the girl.

— No, she says. Your papá and mamá have to talk. Stay here in the truck and we’ll be back really soon.

The girl climbs inside the cab, with the magazine in her hand.

We start walking back toward the lake. She goes ahead. She stands out sharply against the gray sky, which is turning the same color as the barrels of the shotgun. I can see her clearly, two meters ahead of me. There’s nothing else, just the meadow surrounding us, and beyond that the lake, still invisible, and the city, somewhat higher up, now blurred in the foggy dusk. The shotgun is cradled under my left arm, pointing at the ground. The grasses snap under our shoes. I raise the barrels slowly until they’re pointing at the center of her back. Her body is so sharply outlined against the gray dusk that sometimes I have to look away. She stops suddenly and turns around.

— Let’s not go too far because it’s getting late and the girl’s alone, she says.

She glances at the barrels of the shotgun. I crouch and rest the breech of the gun on the ground and press my cheek against the blue metal of the barrels. She sits down on the ground, looking around her uncertainly. She’s saying something now, but I’m not sure what. I’m staring at a fixed spot on the ground, not seeing it.

— Here’s fine, she says.

She lays down face up and pulls her dress up to her waist. Her fat, white legs are crisscrossed with faint blue veins. Then she takes off her underwear, putting them on the ground next to her, and I can see her sex at the vertex of her half open legs.

— Here’s fine, she says. Come on.

I put down the shotgun and climb on top of her.

— Now, yes, that’s it, good, no, she says.

— Okay, stop, no, careful, now, she says.

— Slow, a little more, no, good, she says.

I stare at a clump of grass just above her head. The leaves are yellowed already from the first frosts, more withered the more they are exposed to the air. I hear her moaning and her voice in my ear. Then I get up. She stays where she is, her legs open, covering her eyes with the back of her hand. I stand up the rest of the way and button up. Then I pick up the shotgun. There’s the lake in the distance, and beyond it there’s the city, casting skyward two or three columns of smoke that are erased by the darkening sky. She cleans herself with her underwear and then puts them back on. Quickly, she straightens up her clothes and her hair. She’s distracted, not looking at me.

— Gringa, I say.

— What? she says.

— Nothing, I say.

I turn around and start walking back toward the hill of eucalyptus. I can feel her steps behind me. She’ll be looking at my back, outlined against the dark horizon of trees. She’ll be seeing my silhouette glowing in the afternoon light. I walk, moving first my right leg, then my left, my right, my left, my right. I stop suddenly and turn around. She stops too.