In the Beginning Was the Sea

36

ONE MORNING, J. got up early despite drinking all night. The moment he opened his eyes he was wide awake and convinced that the time had come to dismiss the lumbermen, to dismiss Octavio, to find someone to manage the finca and to leave this place forever. Stepping out onto the veranda, he saw an emerald-green iguana basking on top of one of the fence posts. “I’ve never seen a stamp with an iguana on it,” he thought. He considered this notion and realized he was happy. The sea was glassy as a mirror and the sound of the waves breaking was fitful as the breathing of a sleeping animal. “A huge, slumbering beast,” he thought. “A pathetic literary cliché—you’re not exactly inspired this morning, little man. But there’s a grain of truth in it.”

He was happy.

He decided not to have breakfast at the house and walked to the village where they fed him eggs and fried plantains. He had already begun to see things through the eyes of someone about to leave. He felt a pang of nostalgia. He loved the village, the orange grove, loved Doña Rosita and the locals, loved the smell of smoke wafting from the houses and the scent of soap that drifted from the villagers. He took a short walk through the forest, trying to avoid the workmen and, at noon, as he passed back through the village, he bumped into the wife of Miguelito, one of Doña Rosa’s sons, who offered him lunch. They ate together and then he and Miguelito — who was sweet and terribly shy — walked back to the house. As they arrived, he saw that the iguana had not moved, something he found strange. It seemed stranger still that the animal did not scuttle away when he approached. It was warm from lying in the sun all day but had probably been dead when he first saw it that morning.

At five o’clock he went out to the mango tree and picked a few green fruits. He sat on the veranda to drink one last bottle while he stared out at the sea. “A week from now, I’ll be in Medellín,” he thought. “Or maybe I should head straight to the Valle del Cauca, see if they’ve got any work for me.” He drank slowly, careful to pace himself so that he did not miss the sunset. Then the vast night drew in and a bright crescent moon blazed on the horizon. And with the night came Octavio, who greeted him and went into the kitchen where his wife could serve him dinner. Gilberto passed in front of the house on his way back from town and J. invited him to come up and have a couple of drinks.

J. informed him that he was leaving and that Octavio and the lumbermen would be leaving too. He would need someone to check on the finca now and then; he also wanted to give the horses to someone who could look after them and find a use for them. “I’ll have to come back from time to time, Gilberto,” he said. “For the moment, if I can make a little money, I’ll invest it in having the house done up so it can be rented out to tourists. One way or another, Octavio will be leaving so if you know anyone who would be prepared to live here and keep an eye on things, please, let me know.” Their elbows on their knees, the two men talked in whispers so the old man would not overhear.

Before he left, Gilberto promised to help as much as he could.

By ten o’clock, the moon had risen over the sea and was glistening over the forest, silhouetting the house from behind and casting a silvery shadow over the meadow in front of the house. The moonlight glittered on the spray of the phosphorescent waves as they crashed on the beach. J. knew that tonight he would have to fire Octavio. He could hear the man in the kitchen talking to his wife. But since the old man went to bed late — he slept little, less than five hours — J. postponed the difficult conversation for as long as possible. He saw the lights of a passing shrimp boat out on the open sea. He heard the muffled rumble of the engine. He saw Kaiser walking along the beach, heading for the village, and watched until he melted into the shadows of the forest. J. had already drained half the bottle of aguardiente and the more he drank the more desperate his need to be rid of Octavio and his wife. He felt trapped by them, as though tangled in a mass of seaweed dragging him down into the murky sands of a world he did not recognize at all. Anger welled in him. A small, jet-black cloud covered the moon for an instant and the shades of night were plunged into the sea. Then the cloud scudded on and the darkness was made light once more. From the village came the sound of dogs yapping.

Talking to Octavio was not easy; he liked to remain aloof and aguardiente did little to mellow him. Between sips, vast silences extended like murky lakes. Stripped to the waist, the old man was sitting in a chair leaning back against one of the pillars, his back to the sea. The paraffin lamp cast a dim glow on his chest, matted with grey hair, and glistened on the scar snaking across his belly. J. had once asked about the scar and the old man had told him it was from an operation on his liver. “The old bastard has his liver where his stomach should be,” J. thought but did not enquire further. Now, unwillingly, his eyes were drawn to the gleaming weal. Suddenly, realizing he was afraid to fire the old man, J. felt a surge of anger: he needed to act quickly, to settle the matter once and for all.

“I’m selling the finca, Octavio,” he said brusquely. “I need you and your family to move out within the next three days because I have to leave.”

He took a long swig of aguardiente as the words hung in the air, echoing like a church bell. For a moment, the old man said nothing. He looked dumbfounded.

“You are not going to sell the finca,” he said finally.

J. stared down at the bare boards of the veranda, feeling his face flush with rage.

“Whether or not I sell is my business,” he said slowly. “One way or another I need you out of here by Wednesday.”

“This is what always happens with rich fuckers like you: you bleed a man dry and then toss him on the scrapheap.”

“I’m not rich, I’m not throwing anyone on the scrapheap, and I have not bled anyone dry.”

“You know how hard I’ve worked.”

“That’s enough,” roared J. “The finca is mine and I don’t have to justify myself to anyone.”

“There’s no need to humiliate me.”

“I’m not humiliating anyone! I’m sick to the back teeth of you and your pig of a wife and your children. I don’t want to have to deal with shit all over the veranda, and I don’t want to have to listen to those fucking brats squalling.”

Octavio turned pale, got to his feet and challenged J. to a fight. The situation was absurd. J. was thinking that the old man had spent all day working in the forest and probably stank of sweat. The idea of him and the old man wrestling on the ground was insane. J. became very calm. He felt no fear now.

“I am not about to fight anyone, Octavio. You’re a much stronger man than I am, you could do me serious damage. Now go and pack your things. If I see you here tomorrow morning, I’ll get the police and have you thrown off my land.”

“You’re a pitiful excuse for a man.”

“Don’t talk such shit,” J. said almost affectionately. “I think it might be better if you went to bed.”

J. stared out at the luminous waves crashing on the beach. He felt the aguardiente, cold and harsh, trickle down his throat. He listened as the waves retreated in a soft clatter of shingle. Octavio, he sensed, had gone back into the house. He had just started to urinate when he heard the first shot, felt the bullet hit him, and collapsed. He was bewildered. He felt a tingling in his right arm. Looking down, he saw his shirt was soaked with blood. “Dear God!” he said. He tried to get up but his right arm was too weak and he slumped back onto the grass. He put his weight on his left arm and managed to struggle to his feet. He felt sick. Just as he was about to run, he heard the second barrel and collapsed again onto the meadow.

“Dear God,” he said, “I’m dying.”

He lay motionless for a moment, staring at the blades of grass.

He turned his head and saw Octavio standing on the veranda, holding the still-smoking rifle.

“That’ll teach you to humiliate poor people.”

“Octavio, I need a doctor.”

But the old man had already disappeared. He locked his family in their room and set off for the village to announce he had killed J.

“Octavio, get a doctor.”

There was a sibilant hiss now as he breathed. In the locked bedroom Octavio’s wife and children were crying. Branches brushed against the old man’s face as he raced along the dirt track like a lunatic, aiming the shotgun at the darkness.

“A doctor,” J. groaned.

He no longer tried to get up. He knew he would not be able. He gazed at the shimmering waves as they broke, listened to the whispered drone of the fishing boat out at sea.

“Oh, God!”

Salomón arrived and told him the best fishing would come with winter. When J. opened his eyes Salomón was gone and still the waves shimmered as they broke. He called again for a doctor. He closed his eyes, and heard Salomón telling him the best fishing would come with the rainy season.

It was the last human voice he would hear.

By the time the tide ebbed in a soft clatter of shingle, he could no longer hear it.

Octavio returned, followed by several shadowy figures — none of them dared come close — and walked over to where he lay, now motionless and deathly pale. Octavio gathered him up as one might a sleeping child, climbed the steps to the veranda, walked as far as the bedroom and laid him out on the bed. Then he set off on the road to town.

He was going to turn himself in.