Juan José Saer - Scars

— What is it? she says.

— Nothing, I say.

— It’s something, she says.

— No, I say. I thought I heard flapping. But no.

— Enough with the ducks, she says. Let’s get going. I’m spent.

She comes up next to me and we walk together for a stretch. Every so often we sink to our knees in the grass, and sometimes we splash through puddles. The light is falling quickly. Now we can only see clearly what’s immediately surrounding us, a few meters around. Everything else is cloaked in the blue dusk. The eucalyptus are a black strip. When we get back to the truck, it’s completely dark. The girl is waiting in the truck.

— We have to pack up, she says.

— Did you get another duck, Papá? says the girl.

— No, we didn’t, I say.

I hear her opening the door to the truck.

— Where’s my bag? she says.

— Here it is, she says.

— Just wait, I’m getting the flashlight, she says.

— I’m just standing here. I’m not doing anything, I say.

I hear the door close again, hard. Then I hear her steps on the grass, and suddenly the flashlight is shining in my face.

— Just standing there, huh? she says.

— You look like an animal with that beard, she says.

— Turn off that flashlight right now, I say.

My head is thrown back, my eyes closed, my jaw clenched. She has me pinned to the ground by the light.

— I said turn off that light, I say.

— Turn off the flashlight, Gringa, or I’m going to shoot you, I say.

She laughs. I cock back the hammer, ready to pull the trigger — the metallic sound is heard clearly over her laugher, which for its part is the only other sound in the total silence — and the light turns off. But the laughter continues. It turns into a cough. And then into her clear voice, which echoes in the darkness.

— Help me pick up all this dogshit, she says.

The beam of light projects over the ground. It shines on the wine bottle, the balled up towels, the magazine, on the thin grasses that cast a moving shadow which spreads and stretches out, away from the path of the beam of light. The beam of light then breaks against the mud flaps and travels across the lettering, white on a blue field, which is washed with reflections. She stoops and picks things up and throws them in the truck bed. Then I see the beam of light brush over the roof of the truck and then insert itself above us, into the foliage of the eucalyptus beyond. Several rays pierce the first row of eucalyptus and break up against the hill. Suddenly the light shuts off, and as I start to move through the darkness toward where I imagine the door of the truck is, the light hits my face again. That’s what she wants. She wants me to. The light shuts off, and I hear her laughter in the darkness. I’m sure she wants that.

I grope through the darkness until I touch the surface of the door. I hear the girl’s voice.

— I was carrying it by the neck and it died, she says.

I feel for the handle and open the door. I get in. The girl is sitting behind the wheel.

— Move it, I say, pushing her out.

— What’s that shit in your hand? I say.

— The duckies, says the girl.

— Why are you carrying that shit around everywhere? I say.

I turn on the dashboard light and start the engine.

— Hey, wait for me, says the girl’s voice from behind the truck.

I push the gas pedal without putting it into gear, to warm up the engine. My teeth are clenched. The engine roars. The accelerator touches the floor of the cabin. I stay there briefly, my teeth clenched and my eyes closed, and then I slowly let off the accelerator. I push it into gear and start forward, coming around.

— Watch out, I’m here, says the girl’s voice from somewhere in the darkness.

— I know you’re there, I say.

I come around. I drive slowly toward her, standing with the flashlight pointing at the ground. The beam of light shines on her feet, together, her shoes covered in mud. She tries to get in, thinking I’m going to stop.

— Where are you going? she says.

I pass alongside her. The headlights illuminate the sparse grass between the sandy tracks. The winding path disappears into open country.

— Where are you going? she says again.

I drive some thirty meters and stop. When I hear her steps coming close, I start up again. Thirty meters later, I stop again. The girl laughs. When I hear her steps again, I start up again but then stop right away, less then ten meters ahead. She’s panting.

— You’ll pay for that, she says.

She hits at me through the open window, landing her hand on my shoulder.

— Get in quick or I’m leaving you, I say.

She hits me again through the open window, and I rev up the engine with the stick in neutral. She passes quickly in front of the headlights, stumbling, and then disappears again into the darkness. She opens the passenger door and gets in. She’s barely sat down before I start moving. The truck lurches over the path and winds its way out of the meadow.

— You’ll pay for that, she says.

— One of these days you’ll pay for that, she says.

— You’ll see who you’re dealing with, she says.

— As sure as God exists you’ll pay for that, she says.

— That and everything else, she says.

The headlights illuminate the sandy path and suddenly hit the gate. I brake hard and we all lurch forward, reeling and bumping into each other.

I get out. The gate opens inward, and the front of the truck is too close, so I get back in, reverse, and then brake hard again. I get out again and open the gate all the way. Then I get back in the truck and cross the opening. I don’t stop again.

— Aren’t you going to close the gate? she says.

— You’re drunk, she says.

— This guy thinks he’s the king of the world, but all he’s good for is stealing from a union, she says.

— Easy, Gringa, I say.

Because what she wants is that I. Now we pass a small hamlet alongside the path, and then in the black sky I see the green glow of the neon sign of the motel. I reach the road and turn toward the city. We pass the checkpoint and continue straight, the white line that splits the road shifts to the left, to the right, and now under the wheels of the truck.

— Slow down, she says.

— Slow down, she says. The girl’s with us.

— Don’t you see this little child with us? she says.

— Can’t you at least take pity on the child? she says.

— Not even on the child? she says.

Then she shuts up. I turn onto the suspension bridge, and at the exit I have to brake suddenly so I don’t smash into a car that passes me on the waterfront. We go straight up the boulevard to the Avenida del Oeste, turn on the avenue, then turn again, and then turn onto the street covered with rubble. I stop suddenly. The house is dark.

— Get out, I say. I have to take the truck back.

— Liar. Where are you going? she says.

— I said get out, I say.

— I’m not getting out, she says.

— I want to get out, says the girl.

— Shut your mouth, she says.

— I need to pee, says the girl.

— Let the girl out and take her inside, I say.

— I’m not getting out, she says.

— I’m peeing, Mami, says the girl.

I take the keys from my pants pocket and hand them to the girl.

— Here, I say. Go pee, and then go to bed.

The girl gets out.

— Get out right now, I say.

— I won’t, she says.

I start the truck and take off full speed. At the first corner I turn and drive three blocks on the street paved with rubble. Suddenly I see a light coming through the door of Jozami’s store. I slow down, cross the narrow bridge, and park the car in the courtyard. I feel around on the seat for the ducks and the shotgun. I grab the ducks and the shotgun — the barrels are cold — and get out. She gets out too.