Scars

MAY

WHOEVER FINDS ME FIRST SHOULD KILL ME.

I wake up. My eyes are closed. I’m on my side, with the sheet to my shoulder. When I open my eyes, there’s the light. It’s gray, filtering in through the blinds. There’s the bureau and the oval mirror. She’s in bed, awake, with her back to me. I can hear her breathing.

— Shouldn’t you be up already, getting things together if we’re really going, I say.

— You’re pretending to be asleep, I know it, I say.

I turn over, face up. There’s the ceiling above me in a shadow that the rays of light coming in through the cracks in the blinds don’t reach. I turn toward her. Her back is to me. Her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes.

— You’re pretending to sleep, I say.

She shivers.

— Don’t shiver, I say. Don’t shiver because I know you’re more awake than me and you’re trying to piss me off.

I put my hand on her shoulder and start shaking her. Suddenly she sits up on the edge of the bed. She looks at me. Her hair is falling on her face and her eyes are narrowed.

— How are we going hunting if it’s raining out? she says.

— Who says it’s raining? I say.

— It’s been raining all week, she says. Think it’s going to stop today, just like that?

— It wasn’t raining last night, I say.

She walks out and comes right back in, leaving the door to the courtyard open. A gray shimmer filters through.

— No. It’s not raining, she says. What about instead of going hunting we stay home? she says. Are we really going to pack everything up and head out like a bunch of gypsies?

— I wasn’t farting around when I asked for the truck, I say. I had to ask the foreman for it. When we have the truck for a day, we’re not staying home.

She shrugs and walks out again. I’m lying face up. There’s the ceiling, in the bedroom, which the gray light filtering in from the courtyard illuminates slightly more. The joists crisscross under the zinc sheets. The girl comes in.

— We’re going hunting, I say. We’re going to Colastiné, and we’re bringing back a big pile of ducks.

— Are we going in the canoe? she says.

— Sure we are, I say.

The girl runs out. I sit up on the edge of the bed. Now the oval mirror reflects me back. I get up and dress. Then I go out to the courtyard. The light is gray. She comes out of the bathroom.

— Are you going to shave? she says.

— No, I say. It’s the day of the worker. I decide if I shave or not.

— I’m not going out if you don’t shave, she says.

— I just told you it’s the day of the worker, I say.

She leaves. The courtyard is bare, there’s no weeds. There’s the black stumps of the trees I pulled out. I’ve smoothed out the ground where the trees had been. What’s left in the courtyard is the bare ground, the solid brick wall, and the two mutilated trunks. I go to the bathroom and do my business and then I wash my face and comb my hair. I go back to the courtyard.

— Can I drink some mate before we leave?

There’s the two black tree trunks I pulled out. The rain’s been falling on them for a week. The ground has been smoothed out by the rain. There’s not a single furrow. There’s just the bare courtyard now.

— Can I or can’t I? I say.

— I can’t do a million things at once, says her voice from the kitchen.

— Do I have to make it myself, then? I say.

She looks out the kitchen door.

— I’m not your maid, she says. She’s holding a package wrapped in newspaper. She’s just finishing wrapping it up.

— I’ve told you before I don’t like you wrapping food up in the paper, I say.

She throws the package at me. It hits my arm, and the paper breaks and four loaves of bread fall on the bricks and mud in the courtyard. She wants me to kill her. That’s what she wants. She stares at me furiously from the kitchen. The fury is just in her eyes, because her mouth is contorted into a weird grimace, laughing. That’s what she wants. I stoop and pick up the bread. The one that fell in the dirt is muddy, and it’s left a mark on the ground. I throw the bread into the air, away from the house. The bread sails through the gray air, awkwardly, darkening as it moves off, and then it disappears behind the wall.

— Easy, Gringa, I say.

I gather up the paper, but it’s ruined, useless. I go to the kitchen. She comes in after. Then the girl comes in. I wrap up the loaves and put them in a canvas bag. Then I go get the shotgun and the cartridges, which I set out the night before. The shotgun’s base was removed. It’s heavy. I throw it over my shoulder and pick up the cartridge belt and all the rounds. Back in the kitchen, she and the girl are making some bundles with dish cloths and packing them in the canvas bag. I see they’ve put the kettle on the flame and that the mate and the straw are on the stove. I leave the cartridge belt and the rounds on the table and fill the mate with yerba.

When the kettle starts to steam, I take it from the flame and carry it to the courtyard. I lean the shotgun against the wall and sit down in the low chair in the corridor. They go by with the things, packing the truck. She’s in front, with the bag, and the girl follows with a package. Now the courtyard, where they were, is empty. And it’s empty at the back end except for the black stumps I threw there, soaked from the week of rain. There’s just enough space between them for a person to lay down, the crown of the head touching one and the base of the feet on the other. She reappears from the street.

— Are we going or not? she says.

We’re going, I say. I put down the mate, inside the inverted lid to the kettle. I grab the shotgun from the wall and get up.

— Did you take the cartridges? I say.

— Yes, they’re in there, she says.

There’s the truck, in the street. The girl is waiting in the cab, looking straight ahead, through the windshield. There’s the railroad bed, intersecting the street, blinding it. There’s trees and ditches on both sides, and there’s the houses clustered in between the trees and beyond them the open land.

She gets in the truck and the girl sits on her lap. I cross the little bridge and get in the cab from the other side. Reddish mud filters up through the rubble they’ve used to pave the street. It stains my shoes.

I start the engine and we leave. We make an awkward U-turn at the corner and drive in the opposite direction until the Avenida del Oeste. We take the avenue to the boulevard and turn toward the suspension bridge. There’s no one out. At the mouth of the bridge there’s a gray sentry box. The structure vibrates as we cross. There’s an echo.

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

We leave the bridge and turn onto the smooth blue road. It’s divided by a white line that shifts now to the left of the truck, now to the right, now between the front wheels.

— Hand me the gin, I say.

— I said hand me the gin, I say.

— I’m telling you to give me that bottle, I say.

Finally she unscrews the metal cap and gives me the bottle. I slow down and take a drink, straight from the mouth. She holds on to the cap. I hand back the bottle, not looking away from the road, and then I put both hands back on the wheel. We cross a bridge. Its iron and cement pillars slide backward quickly, flickering. She takes a drink from the mouth of the bottle too, then she caps it.

— You won’t even see the ducks, from drinking, she says.

I don’t say anything.

— Are we going in the canoe, Papá? says the girl.

— Sure we are, I say.

— Shut your mouth, she says.

— Let the girl talk, I say. She’s not bothering anybody.

There’s another bridge. Again the iron and cement pillars slide backward quickly, flickering, and the white line stops when the bridge starts and starts again when the bridge stops.

There’s the marshes around us, with their inlets and their squat trees and the wild grasses that don’t seem to move. The empty marshes, till the land touches the sky. The flat inlets that don’t even glimmer. On both sides, until the eyes get tired of looking. I press my foot down on the pedal, until it touches the floor.

— Thirty years old, this truck, and it runs like a clock, I say. It’s got some pickup in first. The ones they make today are tin cans.

— There’s a flock of whistling ducks, she says.

She points, stretching her hand out until it touches the windshield. The girl leans out over her knees to look. Slowing down, I do something similar. To the north, a group of black dots moves slowly into the distance against the gray sky, flapping, forming an angle, with the leader at the vertex. I say flapping but I don’t see any flapping. All I see is the angle of black dots, moving, and the empty sky.

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

— It’s not going to rain, I say.

I’m still leaning forward, and I look up at the flock again. High up, the angle of black dots, now slightly more open, with the leader at the front, moves to the north, in the vast empty sky.

We pass the checkpoint, where the road divides. The white line follows the curve of the road toward the water and separates from us. Now the truck is traveling along a straight strip of smooth, blue road, without a white line. We drive at least two kilometers past leafless trees and burnt fields. Then, at a squat motel building, we turn off. We leave the asphalt, and the truck jumps when it crosses the border that separates the asphalt from the wide, sandy plot in front of the motel. We pass alongside a cluster of bitterwoods with yellow leaves, onto a path of white sand packed down by the rain. At first there are houses on both sides of the path, obscured by the foliage, but soon there’s only the path that narrows as it penetrates the countryside. Sometimes clusters of plants jump out in front of the truck and the path slips away with a sharp curve. Suddenly a gate stops us. I get out of the truck, unhook the gate, and open it. I cross the opening, stop again, get out again, close the gate, and get back in, continuing on. Ahead there’s nothing but empty country, and at the end a large hill covered with eucalyptus. We drive along the path, with vast spaces of open country on both sides of us. The truck’s progress is labored and lurching. Finally we stop at the base of the hill, on the near side as we approached. Beyond the hill is a broad meadow, beyond that the lake — which isn’t visible — and beyond the lake, and higher up, the city. The columns of the suspension bridge are visible to the left, and to the right the towers of the Guadalupe cathedral. The gray sky is limpid, but tense. We get out.

She walks around briefly, close to the truck, and then takes some comic books from the cab. She sits down on the running board and starts flipping through them. I strap the cartridges to my belt and grab the shotgun from the truck.

— Papi, says the girl. When are we going in the canoe?

— Later, I say, and walk away.

I start moving across the meadow, where there’s no path. The grasses snap under my shoes. Every so often I step in a puddle and sink into it. I stop and turn around, seeing the truck a short distance away. She’s sitting on the running board, reading, and the girl has climbed onto the roof, looking in my direction; she makes a gesture with her hand. I turn around and keep walking.

I turn to the right, still moving toward the lake, and when I’ve walked a short distance more the truck disappears behind the hill of eucalyptus. I walk a little farther and then I stop, and am still.

I crouch. I prop the breech of the shotgun on the ground and rest the cold, blue metal barrel against my cheek. Through the grasses that here and there obscure my view, like a fog, I look at the city. Two columns of black smoke rise to the left, where the smoke stacks of the train station are vaguely visible. The smoke looks motionless, fixed, the upper border of the columns wider and thinner than at the bottom. In the other direction are the towers of the Guadalupe cathedral, and a tiny cottage, that can be sensed more than seen, projects through the foliage at the water’s edge. Then, for a moment, I don’t see anything else. I look without seeing. I don’t know how much time passes. I’m crouching, with the shotgun between my legs, my cheek resting on the cold barrel, looking without seeing. When I straighten up, my legs are cramped.

I load the shotgun and then start moving slowly, half-crouched, toward the lake. It’s visible now, about three hundred meters ahead. Suddenly, at eye level, about ten meters away, something takes off from the meadow. It flaps and picks up altitude. I aim, slowly following the flight of the duck with the sight on the shotgun. I raise my gaze and it gains altitude. Then I shift the sight just ahead of the duck’s body and pull the trigger. The blast, pregnant with the smell of gunpowder, makes a small cloud of smoke and presses the breech softly against my shoulder, but the duck keeps flying. I aim again, moving the sight just ahead of the duck’s body, and pull the trigger. I miss again. A trail of smoke rises from the barrel of the shotgun, and when I touch the barrel it feels hot. The gunpowder smell lingers. I unload the empty rounds and stick them in the cartridge belt. The golden bases of the cartridges wrap around my waist, extending evenly, identically, from the loops. The two that I’ve put back into the empty loops, discharged, are covered with stains and the primer is flattened. I take out two intact rounds, leaving the loops empty, and load the shotgun. Then I latch the shotgun and start walking again toward the lake.

The duck has disappeared into the gray sky, away from the city and toward the hill of eucalyptus. I continue toward the lake. I listen to the snapping grasses that I crush with my muddy shoes. I straighten up and turn around. The hill of eucalyptus is smaller now, and all I see is the green mass of leaves — a strip of green foliage more transparent at the upper edge. I keep going toward the lake.

I walk more than an hour. More. Every so often I crouch, setting the breech of the shotgun on the ground and touching the barrel to my cheek, and I look without seeing. I stare at some bare spot on the ground, where the grass is thin, and I look at the yellow leaves of the grass without seeing them. Sometimes my eyes stop on one blade, whose edges are withered and discolored by the frostbite, more withered the more they are exposed to the destructive air. I’ve been approaching and moving away from the edge of the lake, without ever reaching it. Finally I arrive, to where the water almost touches my feet. From there the city is like an arm’s length away, and the hill of eucalyptus is hidden. The water is smooth, gray.

I turn my head abruptly toward a duck that is taking off among the grasses, away from the lake. I take aim and follow it quickly with the sight, leading its body a shade, and pull the trigger. It shudders, convulses, flaps, and its flight stops suddenly, as though it collided with an invisible wall in the empty space. It falls straight to the ground, some fifteen meters from where I’m standing. When I get there, brushing aside the grasses, it’s still twitching, and it flaps two or three more times. Then it stretches out a leg and is still. I’ve hit it in the nape, and blood is splattered across its blue neck feathers. I pick it up by the legs and take it away.

Now I walk with my back to the city and the lake, toward the hill of eucalyptus. I have to walk a long way and then turn gradually to the right before I see the truck. Finally it reappears, behind the hill. When I’m close, I see her sitting in the cab, and the girl is coming to meet me. She grabs the duck.

— Is it dead? she says.

— Completely, I say.

I sit down on the running board with the shotgun at my feet.

— Hand me the gin, I say.

I speak in a loud voice, with my back to the cab, looking out toward the city.

A moment later I feel the bottle hitting me softly on the head. From what’s left in the bottle, I can tell she’s been drinking.

— Don’t make me carry you out of here later, I say.

— I’m hungry, says the girl.

She drops the duck into the truck bed, pushing it through the wooden stakes. Then she starts spelling out the words on the sign that is hanging from the stakes.

— Mo-li-no ha-ri-ne-ro ese ah, she says.

— Gringa, I say. This girl is hungry. And so am I. What did you bring us?

— Dogshit, she says.

— I know that, I say. But how’d you make it? Milanesa? Stewed? How?

— You’re a crook, she says. Stealing from the union.

That’s what she wants. It’s obvious that’s what she wants.

— Alright, Gringa, easy, I say. Tell us what kind of dogshit we have for lunch.

— Stealing from the union, she says.

— Mo-li-no ha-ri-ne-ro ese ah, says the girl.

I take a long drink from the gin. I close my eyes. I fill my mouth up with the gin and then let it fall into my stomach. It burns, going down. Meanwhile I screw on the lid. Then I put the gin on the ground, near the shotgun.

— Gringa, I say.

— What, she says.

— Don’t mention the union again, or I’ll get angry. Don’t make me angry. Aren’t we having a good time? We’re spending a day in the country, the whole family, it’s nice. Isn’t it nice? Behave yourself and get down from the truck because it’s time to eat.

— There’s milanesas and cheese and a bunch of stuff, she says.

I hear her moving around inside the cab and then get out, on the other side. She passes in front of me and reaches over the planks of the rails. She takes out the canvas bag and sits down on the running board. The girl sits down on the ground, in front of us.

— Careful with the shotgun, I say.

I pick up the shotgun and prop it between my legs. She takes out two or three packages from the canvas bag and leaves them on the ground. Then she takes out a bottle of wine.

— I forgot the corkscrew, she says.

She spreads a cloth over the ground and starts opening the cloth bundle on it. There’s cold milanesas, cheese, salami, and half a dozen hardboiled eggs. There’s also the three loaves that I wrapped up in the kitchen.

I hit the bottom of the wine bottle against the ground until the cork pops out. A stream of wine follows it and splatters us. We all laugh.

— Good times, I say.

We eat, and drink the bottle of wine.

— Let’s go back, she says.

— Now? I say. I want to try for another duck first.

— It’s going to rain, she says.

— Stop with that rain, because it’s not going to rain at all, I say.

— I want to go out in the canoe, Papi, says the girl.

— Shut your mouth, I say.

— Last night I dreamt that you were going to shoot that duck, says the girl. I dreamt that Mami and I were waiting here in the truck and that you walked to the lake and there were three shots and then you came back with the duck. I dreamt all of it.

I softly punch the door of the truck.

— Powerful machine, I say.

— If you’re going to shoot that duck then get going, she says. I’ll go crazy if I stay here another hour.

— You were crazy before we got here, I say. Before you were born.

— Alright, she says. Get going.

— Do you remember, Gringa, that time we went to Buenos Aires on May first? I say. There were a million workers there, at least.

— At least that many, she says.

I stand up. Maybe I’ll get another duck, I say.

I pick up the shotgun and point the barrels at her.

— Should I pull the trigger? I say.

— Cut it out, don’t be stupid, she says.

I point the barrels away.

— If you shut up and keep quiet, you can come with me, I say.

— Yeah, she says. And who’s going to watch our things?

— No one comes out here, I say.

— Are we going out in the canoe, Papi? says the girl.

She shrugs. Fine, let’s go, she says.

We start walking through the meadow, coming around, and after we’ve walked a couple of hundred meters, the truck has disappeared, blocked by the hill of eucalyptus.

I walk ahead. She and the girl follow. I can hear the grass snapping under our shoes. Sometimes it comes up no higher than my knees, and sometimes our feet sink into puddles that appear suddenly, hidden by the underbrush.

— This is bullshit, she says, behind me.

— The less you talk, the better, I say, not stopping or looking back.

— I’ll talk as much as I like, she says.

When I stop and turn around, the barrels are pointing at her. I point them down, at the ground.

— I said that if you came with me you would have to be quiet, I say.

La Gringa makes a face, but doesn’t say a thing.

We reach the edge of the lake, without flushing a single duck. She and the girl are staring at the city, their mouths open.

— That’s the Guadalupe cathedral over there, she says.

— And the suspension bridge, says the girl.

We walk along the shore. They’re going ahead now. Suddenly they stop, looking toward the city again. Their backs are to me, some five meters away. The barrels are pointing at them. I’m transfixed for a moment, staring at them. Nothing happens. There’s the lake, glowing, and the city beyond, and closer to me their silhouettes, sharply contrasted against the vast open sky. I ask myself if there’s anything that could erase them. But even if they were erased, they would still be there, always. There’s nothing for it. They’ll always be there. But I can’t lower the barrels. They’re standing there, apart, against the vast open sky. Their outlines glow, sharply. They’re still.

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.

— 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.

— 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.

— You could’ve said you were getting a drink, without making such as fuss, she says.

The light coming through the door is weak. I slip on the mud and then grope with my foot for the brick path that leads to the door. She’s walking ahead. We go inside.

There’s Jozami the Turk, don Gorosito, and two women. I touch la Gringa on the arm and whisper to her, Watch the way you behave and what you say.

— You’re going to pay, she says.

We say hello. I order two rums. I leave the shotgun and the ducks on the counter, near the edge, and just stand there. I see everything clearly.

— Out hunting? says Jozami.

— Lots of ducks out this time of year, says don Gorosito. There was a time when me and the boys would go out duck hunting and come back with all our bags loaded up. We could eat duck till we were sick of it and there was still some left over to share around the neighborhood.

— What we got today isn’t even enough for us, she says. My husband’s a bad shot, is the thing.

— Where’d you go? says Jozami.

— Over by Colastiné, she says.

Jozami pours the two rums. He comes over and leaves mine next to the ducks and the breech of the shotgun.

— A roasted duck is really tasty, says don Gorosito.

— There aren’t many tasty things left in your life, are there don Gorosito? says one of the women.

She has her back to me. The three others are standing in a semicircle opposite her, facing me. Jozami’s hands are resting on the counter.

— But don’t forget what don Gorosito was in his youth, says the other one.

— Ask around and they’ll tell you who Pedro Gorosito was, says don Gorosito.

— Men these days, she says, aren’t worth a thing.

— That’s so true, says the woman who spoke first.

— It’s like I’m always saying, says the other one. She’s standing next to the counter, her shoulder almost grazing against don Gorosito’s.

— Join us, Fiore my friend, says don Gorosito. Come enjoy this friendly circle with us.

— Watch out, she says. He’s pissy.

— It’s like I’m always saying, says the woman standing next to Gorosito. Men today aren’t good for anything.

— All they’re good for is chasing after negras, she says. Like this one here — every blessed day he spends chasing after las negras.

— Just ask and they’ll tell you who Pedro Gorosito was, says don Gorosito. Not bragging, but I was a slick dresser in those days, and remember I was a goalkeeper for Progreso in the forties.

— He spends all day chasing after las negras, as if I wasn’t as female as anybody, she says. As anybody, and even more so.

I take a drink of rum and leave the glass on the counter. The other woman, the one standing next to the cans of food, is looking toward me, though she doesn’t stop talking. That’s what she wants. Even though her back is to me, I can tell, from her tone. She’s got her back to me, next to the counter. If I turn my head toward the pile of cans and I close an eye, I can erase her. Now there’s just her voice, because I’ve erased her. I open my eye and she reappears. I close my eye again, my head turned slightly toward the pile of cans, and I erase her again. Because she wants that, she’s asking me for it. I don’t understand what she is saying. I know she’s talking about me. For me.

— You can’t trust men these days, says the woman standing next to Gorosito. They’ve got a lot of interests, and all they’re good at is lying about it.

— This one here goes crazy when he sees a negra, she says. He goes nuts. The filthiest negra could make him drop everything. Could make him steal or whatever else. Like if I wasn’t as female as anybody or even more so.

I erase her again, turning my head slightly toward the pile of cans and closing my right eye. I open my eye slowly, and the cloudy image sharpens again, until she reappears, moving her shoulders and gesturing.

— I used to have a place right downtown, near the government offices. You can go down to the neighborhood and ask who Pedro Gorosito is, says don Gorosito.

While she talks her head moves. Her neck and her back follow the movement, and then her arms come up and then they fall alongside her body.

— One’s never enough for them, says the woman standing next to Gorosito.

— Some parts of them are good, says the other woman, looking at me.

— Pour me another gin, Jozami, che, says don Gorosito.

— What good? she says. They’re all dogshit, that’s what they are.

— Let’s see if you can shut your mouth right now, Gringa, I say.

— All they think about is drinking and chasing skirts, she says. And this one here is the worst of them.

— Shut up, Gringa, I say.

— Then they try to shut you up, just when you’re starting to air out the laundry, she says.

— Gringa, I say.

— Easy now, I say.

She turns toward me, smiling. I smile.

— It’s alright my love, she says.

She opens the bag and takes out the flashlight. Suddenly my eyes are filled with light. I close them and throw my head back. She switches the light on and off, on and off. It’s obvious that’s what she wants. It’s obvious she’s trying to make me understand it.

— Turn that light off, Gringa, or you’ll get what’s coming to you.

She turns it off. The scene reappears, covered with sparks of light and red blurs, until eventually everything is clear like before.

— That’s how I’ve got him, she says. In the light. He makes life bad for me.

— You know what’s coming to you, I say.

— He makes life so bad for me, she says.

— Let’s go, I say.

— Kids these days have no memory, but the name Pedro Gorosito used to be on everyone’s lips, years back, says don Gorosito.

I finish my rum in one swallow and leave a fifty-peso bill on the counter.

— Finish that rum and let’s go, I say.

— I decide if I want to go or not, she says.

— No. Let’s go, I say.

She drinks her rum slowly, deliberately, to piss me off. She’s got the flashlight in her hand. Then she picks up the bag from the counter and gets ready to leave.

— Good night everyone, she says.

I wave. We leave. It’s raining.

— Didn’t I say it was going to rain? she says.

— Yes, you did, I say.

— When I say something it’s because I know something, she says.

In the darkness I feel her stop in front of me, blocking me from the truck.

— Get going, I say.

— Didn’t I say a thousand times that it was going to rain? she says.

— Yes, I say. Keep walking.

— When I say something is going to happen, it happens, she says.

I’ve got the shotgun under my right arm, the ducks in my left hand.

— I’m not going anywhere, she says.

She stands between me and the truck. I can feel her breathing in the darkness, and the clicking sounds of her bag against the flashlight. For a moment, I do nothing. Then I step forward and touch her, push her, and I feel her stumble back. She lets out a sound and then the light comes on — a beam of white light that flashes and searches for me until finally, after grazing my hand, my chest, and my neck, it covers my face. It’s a blinding flash charged with burning sparks, issuing from a core of rigid whiteness. It pins me down in the darkness.

— Didn’t I say it was going to rain? says her voice. Didn’t I? Didn’t you hear me say so?

Then I raise the barrels of the shotgun up into an oblique line. Then I just pull the triggers, one after the other, and when I do the blasts sound so close together that the second one is like a stutter of the first, the echo of the first, and it fills the damp air with an explosive sound that’s pregnant with the smell of gunpowder. At the moment I pull the triggers my left hand lets go of the ducks and they fall to the ground. The flashlight falls too, and the beam of light casts off in a random direction and then is still. The light hits something and is interrupted and then continues, breaking up toward the dark street. I walk around the flashlight and get in the truck.

I turn around hard, cross the bridge, and turn the corner. The engine roars. When I reach the avenue I realize that I’ve driven the whole way with the door open, that it’s been slamming crazily against the metal frame. On the avenue I find an open bar and stop the truck. I get out and drink two gins at the counter, one after the other. Then I go back to the house. I park the truck in the darkness and go inside with the shotgun. I turn on the light in the girl’s bedroom. She’s sleeping. I approach the bed and raise the shotgun to her head. I pull the trigger, but there’s nothing but a metallic click. Then I go to my bedroom. There’s the dresser and the oval mirror, which reflects me as I pass. I leave the shotgun on the bed, take off the cartridge belt, and set it next to the shotgun. Then I go to the courtyard, pick up the kettle and the mate, both cold, from where I left them that morning, and go to the kitchen. I dump out the old yerba, pour in some new stuff, and when the kettle starts to whistle I take it and the mate and the straw to the corridor. I sit down in the low chair.

The rain falls on the mutilated black trees lying in the courtyard. The corridor light illuminates them weakly. Still, they’re blinding. The cracked bark fills with water, and parts of the bare courtyard are suddenly reflective. It’s blinding. I close my eyes briefly, pressing hard. When I open them, the wet stumps and the bare courtyard are still there.

And I realize that I’ve only erased part of it, not everything, and there’s still something left to erase so it’s all erased forever.

NAM OPORTET HAERESES ESSE