Mouthful of Birds

ON THE STEPPE

Life on the steppe isn’t easy. You’re hours away from everything, and there’s nothing to look at but a giant tangle of dry shrubs. Our house is several miles from the nearest town, but that’s okay: it’s comfortable and has everything we need. Pol goes to town three times a week. While he’s there he sends off his articles on insects and insecticides to the agricultural magazines, and he does the shopping, following the lists I prepare. During those hours when he’s not here, I carry out a series of activities that I prefer to do alone. I don’t think Pol would like it if he knew about what I do. But when you’re desperate, when you’ve reached your limit like we have, then the simplest solutions—candles, incense, whatever advice the magazines give—all seem like reasonable options.

There are many fertility recipes and not all of them are trustworthy, so I choose only the most sensible ones and follow the instructions to a T. I have a notebook where I take notes about any relevant detail, any tiny changes I notice in Pol or in me.

It gets dark late on the steppe, which doesn’t leave us too much time. We have to have everything ready: the flashlights, the nets. Pol cleans everything while I wait for the time to come. Cleaning off the dust just for it all to get dirty again lends the thing a certain air of ritual, as if before starting out we were already thinking about how to do it better and better, attentively reviewing the routine of recent days to find any detail that could be adjusted, that could lead us to them, or at least to one: ours.

When we’re ready, Pol passes me my jacket and scarf and I help him put on gloves, and we both sling backpacks over our shoulders. We go out the back door and walk into the fields. The night is cold, but the wind is calm. Pol goes first, shining the flashlight on the ground. Deeper in, the countryside sinks down a little into long hillocks; we move toward them. Around there the shrubs are small, hardly tall enough to hide our bodies, and Pol thinks that’s one of the reasons our plan fails every night. But we keep trying because several times now we thought we saw some, around dawn, when we were already exhausted. In those early-morning hours I’m almost always hiding behind some bush, clutching my net, nodding off and dreaming of things that seem fertile. Pol, on the other hand, turns into a kind of predatory animal. I see him move off, hunched over the plants, and he can stay there, crouching and motionless, for a long time.

I’ve always wondered what they’ll really be like. We’ve talked about it several times. I think they’re the same as the ones in the city, only a little coarser, wilder. Pol, though, is sure they’ll be different, and although he’s as excited as I am and there’s not a single night when the cold and exhaustion convince him to leave the search for another day, when we’re out among the bushes, he moves with a certain wariness, as if from one moment to the next something wild could attack him.

Now I’m alone, looking out at the road from the kitchen window. This morning we slept in and then had lunch. Then Pol went to town with the shopping list and his magazine articles. But it’s late, he should have been back a while ago and there’s still no sign of him. Finally, I see the pickup. As he’s pulling up to the house he waves his hand out the window. I go out and help him with the groceries, and he greets me by saying:

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“What?”

Pol smiles. We carry the bags to the porch and sit in the chairs there.

“So,” says Pol, rubbling his hands together. “I met a couple, and they’re great.”

“Where?”

I ask only to keep him talking, and then he says something wonderful, something I never would have thought of and that nevertheless I realize will change everything.

“They came here for the same reason,” he says. His eyes are shining and he knows I’m desperate for him to go on. “And they have one. They’ve had him a month now.”

“They have one? They have one! I can’t believe it…”

Pol can’t stop nodding and rubbing his hands together.

“They invited us over for dinner. Tonight!”

I’m happy to see him happy, and I’m so happy, too—it’s as though we’d finally managed it ourselves. We hug and kiss, and right away we start to get ready.

I bake a dessert, and Pol chooses a bottle of wine and his best cigars. While we shower and get dressed, he tells me everything he knows. Arnol and Nabel live some ten miles from here, in a house very much like ours. Pol saw it because they drove back together, in a caravan, until Arnol honked his horn to tell him they were turning and he saw Nabel pointing to the house. “They’re great,” says Pol again and again, and I feel a little jealous that he already knows so much about them.

“And? What’s he like? Did you see him?”

“They leave him at home.”

“What do you mean, they leave him at home? Alone?”

Pol shrugs his shoulders. I’m surprised he doesn’t think it’s odd, but I just ask him for more details while I go on with the preparations.

We close up the house as if we’re going away for a long time, then bundle up and go outside. During the drive I carry the apple pie on my lap, taking care it doesn’t tilt, and I think about the things I’m going to say, about everything I want to ask Nabel. Maybe when Pol invites Arnol for a cigar they’ll leave the two of us alone together. Then maybe I can talk to her about more private things. Maybe Nabel used candles, too; maybe she dreamed often of fertile things, and now that they’ve gotten one she can tell us exactly what to do.

We honk the horn when we arrive and they come right out to greet us. Arnol is a big guy wearing jeans and a red plaid shirt; he greets Pol with a warm hug, like an old friend he hasn’t seen in a long time. Nabel comes out after Arnol and smiles at me. I think we’re going to get along. She’s also tall, as tall as Arnol but thin, and her clothes are almost the same as his; I regret having dressed up. Inside, the house reminds me of an old mountain lodge. Wooden walls and ceiling, a big fireplace in the living room, and furs on the floor and sofas. It’s well lit and heated. It’s really not the way I would decorate my house, but I think it’s all fine and I return Nabel’s smile. There’s a delicious smell of sauce and roast meat. It seems Arnol is the chef; he moves around the kitchen shifting dirty dishes around, and he tells Nabel to show us into the living room. We sit on the sofa. She pours wine and brings in a tray of appetizers, and soon Arnol joins us. I want to ask questions right away: How did they catch him, what’s he like, what’s his name, does he eat well, have they taken him to the doctor yet, is he as cute as the ones from the city? But the conversation lingers on stupid subjects. Arnol asks Pol about insecticides, Pol takes an interest in Arnol’s business, then they talk about trucks, the places they buy things; they discover they both argued with the same man, a guy who works in the service station, and they agree he’s terrible. Then Arnol excuses himself to go check on the food, Pol offers to help him, and they both leave. I settle into the sofa across from Nabel. I know I should say something friendly before asking her what I want to ask. I compliment her on the house, and then right away I ask:

“Is he cute?”

She blushes and smiles. She looks at me like she’s embarrassed, and I feel a knot in my stomach and I’m dying of happiness and I think, They’ve got him and They’ve got him and he’s beautiful.

“I’d love to see him,” I say. I want to see him right now, I think, and I stand up. I look toward the hallway and wait for Nabel to say, This way. I’m finally going to see him, hold him.

Then Arnol comes back with the food and calls us to the table.

“Does he sleep all day, then?” I ask, and I laugh as if it were a joke.

“Ana is anxious to meet him,” says Pol, and he caresses my hair.

Arnol laughs, but instead of answering he places the serving dish on the table and asks who likes rare meat and who likes it well done, and then we’re eating again. Nabel is more talkative during the meal. While the men hold forth on their own subjects, we discover our lives are similar. Nabel asks me for advice about plants and then I get up the nerve to mention the fertility recipes. I bring it up as just a joke, offhand, but Nabel shows interest and I find out she used them, too.

“And the walks? The nighttime hunts?” I say, laughing. “The gloves, the backpacks?”

Nabel is quiet for a second, surprised, and then she starts laughing along with me.

“And the flashlights!” she says, holding her belly. “With those damned batteries that don’t last five minutes!”

And me, almost crying:

“And the nets! Pol’s net!”

“And Arnol’s!” she says. “I just can’t tell you!”

Then the men stop talking. Arnol looks at Nabel and he seems surprised. She hasn’t noticed yet: she doubles over in an attack of laughter, pounding the table twice with the palm of her hand, and it seems like she’s trying to say something else but she can barely breathe. I look at her, amused, and then I look at Pol to make sure he’s having a good time, too. Nabel takes a breath, and crying with laughter, says:

“And the shotgun.” She pounds the table again. “For God’s sake, Arnol! If you’d only stopped shooting! We would have found him much faster…”

Arnol looks at Nabel like he wants to kill her, and finally he lets loose with an exaggerated peal of laughter. I look at Pol again, and he’s not laughing anymore. Arnol shrugs his shoulders resignedly, seeking a complicit look from Pol. Then he mimes taking aim with a shotgun and shoots. Nabel imitates him. They do it one more time aiming at each other, now a little calmer, until they stop laughing.

“Oh… goodness…” says Arnol, and he passes the dish around to offer more meat. “Finally, people we can share this whole thing with… Anyone want more?”

“So, where is he? We want to see him,” Pol finally says.

“You’ll see him soon,” says Arnol.

“He sleeps a lot,” says Nabel.

“All day long.”

“So we’ll just look at him while he’s asleep!” says Pol.

“Oh, no, no,” says Arnol. “First, the dessert Ana baked, then a good coffee, and my Nabel here has prepared some games. Do you like strategy games, Pol?”

“But we’d love to see him asleep.”

“No,” says Arnol. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense to see him like that. You can do that any day.”

Pol looks at me for a second, then says:

“All right, dessert then.”

I help Nabel carry the dishes to the kitchen. I take out the pie that Arnol put in the fridge, I carry it to the table and prepare to serve it. Meanwhile, Nabel is busy in the kitchen with the coffee.

“Where’s the bathroom?” asks Pol.

“Oh, the bathroom…” says Arnol as he looks toward the kitchen, maybe looking for Nabel. “It’s just that it’s not working so well, and…”

Pol makes a gesture to indicate it doesn’t matter.

“Where is it?”

Maybe without meaning to, Arnol looks toward the hallway. Then Pol gets up and starts to walk and Arnol gets up, too.

“I’ll go with you.”

“That’s okay, it’s not necessary,” says Pol, already in the hallway.

Arnol follows him a few steps.

“To your right,” he says. “The bathroom is the one on the right.”

My eyes follow Pol until he finally enters the bathroom. Arnol stands a few seconds with his back to me, looking toward the hallway.

“Arnol,” I say, and it’s the first time I’ve called him by his name. “Pie?”

“Sure,” he says. He looks at me and then turns back to the hallway.

“Ready,” I say, and I push the first plate toward his chair. “Don’t worry, he’ll be a while.”

I smile at him, but he doesn’t respond. He comes back to the table and sits in his chair with his back to the hall. He seems uncomfortable, but in the end he picks up his fork and cuts off an enormous portion of pie that he puts in his mouth. I look at him, a little surprised, and go on serving. From the kitchen, Nabel asks how we like our coffee. I’m about to answer when I see Pol come silently out of the bathroom and cross the hall into another room. Arnol looks at me, waiting for an answer. I tell Nabel that we love coffee, we like it any which way. The light in the other room goes on and I hear a muffled sound, like something heavy falling on a carpet. Arnol is going to turn toward the hallway, so I say his name:

“Arnol.” He looks at me, but starts to stand up.

I hear another sound, then Pol screams and something falls to the floor—a chair, maybe—then a heavy piece of furniture is moved, things break. Arnol runs toward the hallway and takes down the rifle that’s hanging on the wall. I get up to run after him; Pol comes backing out of the room, keeping his eyes on what’s inside. Arnol goes right for him but Pol reacts, hits the rifle out of his hands, then pushes him aside and runs to me.

I can’t figure out what’s happening, but I let him take me by the arm and we run out. I hear the door slowly closing behind us as we run, and then a crash as it’s slammed back open. Nabel is screaming. Pol gets into the pickup and starts it, and I get in on the passenger side. We back out of the driveway, and for a few seconds the headlights shine onto Arnol as he runs toward us.

Once we’re on the road we drive awhile in silence, trying to calm down. Pol’s shirt is torn—he almost lost the whole right sleeve—and he has some deep scratches on his arm that are oozing blood. Soon we approach our house at top speed, and at top speed we pass it and leave it behind. I touch his arm, about to stop him, but he’s breathing hard, with his tense hands clutching the steering wheel. He scans the black expanse to either side, and behind us in the rearview mirror. We should slow down. We could die if an animal crossed in front of us. Then I think that one of them could also cross—and it could be ours. But Pol speeds up even more, as if, in the terror his frenzied eyes belie, he were counting on precisely that.