The Hare

6: Clarke’s Confession

Three or four days later, they were in exactly the same situation. The distances were as huge as ever, the sky changed colors on cue, they swapped horses regularly, the weather continued stable. Gauna was still morose, Prior irrepressible. His way of conversing was in itself irrepressible, consisting as it did of tiny, meaningless sallies thrown out at every step and at any excuse. He had begun to address Clarke familiarly, both out of sheer exuberance and because, as he said, he considered they were twin souls. At times, Clarke was unsure whether the youth’s remarks were mere absurdities or deliberate mockery, as when Prior showed himself both inquisitive and disbelieving over the question of Clarke’s bachelorhood:

“You’re thirty-five already, Clarke! What are you waiting for to get married?”

“In England, no one marries before they’re forty.”

“Don’t talk nonsense! How can everyone get married when they’re old! No, no, in your case, there’s something very special going on.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I rack my brains over it, but I can’t find the

explanation.”

Clarke could not help but laugh.

“I’ve traveled a lot. .”

“All the more reason to marry. When you got back from your journeys, you’d see how your children had grown. Can you imagine the satisfaction? Thirty-five! You could be a grandfather

already.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“But I’m being serious! You could have a child my age.”

“Er. .”

“No, you say? But if you’d married at. .”

“All right, all right! How about changing the conversation?”

“Can’t you see you’re scared stiff? You could at least tell me if you intend to get married, even if it’s in your extreme old age.”

“Yes, I’m going to marry. Are you satisfied?”

“Do you think you’ll reach old age?”

“How will I get married otherwise?”

“No, it’s a serious question. I’m certain I’ll reach a hundred. Would you believe it, my great-grandfather is still alive? Old man Alzaga Gonzalez, known as ‘three Zees.’ He’s ninety-six and as strong as an oak. And his wife, a comparative youngster, is ninety-four. They had eleven children and only one of them died — and he was drowned, it wasn’t his health that failed him, no chance. And on my maternal side. .”

“Wait a minute: didn’t you say you were adopted?”

Prior suddenly remembered. He burst out laughing:

“I’d forgotten. You see, I’m not so dogmatic about it. In fact, I didn’t forget, I said it to see if you’d remembered.”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite! Admit you had forgotten.”

“No, seriously, it was to test you.”

“Admit it!”

“I swear!”

“Admit it, or I’ll leave you here staked out on the ground!”

“All right! Don’t be so gleeful, just because you were right for once! Are your grandparents still alive?”

“I don’t have any: I’m adopted.”

The youth’s laughter rang out across the empty plain hour after hour. Clarke was slightly ashamed of these absurd conversations because of Gauna, but apart from that, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Life does not often give one the chance to revel in all the childishness one has inside.

“What kind of woman do you like?” Carlos asked him some time later, returning once more to the theme that so fascinated him.

“I don’t have a definite preference.”

“You mean you don’t want to tell me, which is different.”

“All right, I don’t want to tell you.”

“Just as long as they’re not the sort with mustaches and

tattoos.”

“Is that the kind of thing the priests teach you at school?”

“Do you like them educated?

“. .!”

“Well, you’re such an intelligent fellow, so well-read.”

“I like the silent type.”

“Oh, Clarke, Clarke, you’re so mysterious. The more I know you, the more you surprise me. How many times have you been in love in your life?”

“Only once.”

Clarke responded so quickly that his reply sounded a serious note in the midst of all their idle chatter. Carlos could not help but notice it, and this immediately awoke a real, generous interest in him. Once his curiosity was aroused, it was overwhelming. Clarke regretted his involuntary confession. There are times, he thought to himself; when it is much better to keep one’s mouth shut. But he was sufficiently honest with himself to recognize that it had been his own fault. In all these years, he had not opened himself to anyone about this painful episode in his life. Perhaps now was the time to do so. Carlos was the same age as his silence. There was a certain poetic justice about it all.

“One of these days,” he said, “I’ll tell you about it.”

“No, right now.”

“I promise. Don’t be impatient. You’re bored, and want to be entertained. But in this case, it’s not a question of just talking for the sake of it, at least not as far as I’m concerned. We adults often have unhappy memories, which mean a lot to us. For some reason, we store them up. And it can cause us still more pain if we confide them to inattentive or mocking ears.”

“Don’t insult me, Clarke. I do have some idea about life.”

“Very little.”

“And what does that matter?”

Clarke smiled at him.

“You’re right. What does it matter? I promise I’ll tell you, and you’ll be the first to hear it. Just give me some time to make up my mind.”

“No. Now.”

Clarke did not want to continue the argument, so he said nothing. But after their lunch and siesta, when they were riding out again in the fine afternoon across the empty wastes, the sad poignancy of the hour brought the words flowing naturally to his lips:

“It was many years ago. . ”

“What was?”

“What d’you mean, ‘what was?’ What happened to me. Didn’t you ask me to tell you?”

“That’s right! I’m sorry, I was thinking of something else.”

“Carry on then, don’t let me interrupt you.”

“No, please, tell me.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything now.”

“Clarke, you’re driving me crazy! I’m sorry, but don’t be so touchy. My mind was elsewhere for a moment, but now I’m all ears.”

Clarke sighed, and began again:

“When I was young. . when I was your age, my greatest dream was to come and discover this part of America. My father had always spoken so nostalgically of it as a land of fable that it had made an indelible impression on me. My father had been a sailor, a trader, even a soldier. He traveled in Patagonia, Chile and Peru, in the days of General San Martín’s expeditions. His wanderings ended abruptly and without explanation; one fine day he returned to England and his wife, whom he had not seen for ten years. They adopted me, and he never left Kent again. All my adolescent dreams revolved around his years of adventure in America, made more poignant by his mysterious decision to come back home. So that when I was eighteen and had the chance to travel, my dream of getting to know these lands became reality. I went to Valparaiso, where I worked for a year and a half in an import-export house. I made numerous trips into the interior, if that is the right word in a country like Chile, which is so narrow people always walk sideways as though they were in an Egyptian frieze. I visited the northern desert, crossed the Andes a couple of times, and even ventured in a ship to the frozen south. Eventually, I headed south again with a small group which was exploring the possibility of settling there. We traveled overland, and reached the region of the fjords in a glorious springtime. In a shack on the coast I fell in with a compatriot, an aged adventurer who was waiting for the spring thaw to set off into the mountains to discover heaven knows what. He was a geologist and a widower, and was accompanied by his daughter, the wonderful Rossanna Haussmann, with whom I fell head over heels in love. Since she reciprocated my feelings, I said goodbye to my companions and set off with Professor Haussmann and her, who themselves had for company only four Indians and a black Chilean (an extraordinary thing, a black Chilean), by name Callango. Following the professor’s plans, we headed east as soon as the passes were clear. And so began for me a bewitching adventure, in which love and nature came together in one moment and one place, something life does not prepare us for, and which unfortunately is never repeated. Rossanna’s father was interested only in the mountains, in their composition, their mass, their complex relations with the earth’s gravity. Years later, I realized he was a scientist ahead of his time. At that time, his words went in one ear and out the other, while Rossanna’s words of love stayed forever in my heart. We discovered a confirmation of our love in every demonstration of nature’s power. And I can assure you that nature, in those latitudes, is in itself a confirmation. I don’t know of what exactly, but it is. We came upon mountains of black ice, which moved in front of our eyes; forests of giant blue pines, where deer as tall as horses grazed; valleys where every last inch was covered in flowers, while above them hung gigantic cornices of snow carved and polished by the wind; lakes as still as mirrors, winds howling awesome melodies, marble cliffs as lofty as palaces. It was all a delight for us, we felt ‘at home’ with every detail, no matter how big or small. But wherever we went, Callango’s insane eyes followed us. It was he who caused me the worst moment of my life. The man was out of his mind, though this was far from obvious on first acquaintance with him. He was unctuous, clinging, tenacious. By an incredible stroke of misfortune, he had also fallen in love with Rossanna, but in the way that black men fall in love with white women, that’s to say without much hope beyond a sort of perverse devotion; and devotion can never be wholly spiritual, because it is an intensification of desire. I would be lying if I said that was how I thought in those days (I had not even read Hume yet), but I was aware in some obscure way of the danger, and went to talk to the professor. He made excuses for Callango, telling me he had known him a long time, and was aware of the somewhat morbid fascination he had for his daughter, but felt it to be harmless. In his view Callango was a hysterical primitive, with feminoid tendencies. He even suggested he might soon fall for me instead, and then we could all have a good laugh about it. I’ll never forgive myself for the easy way I let myself be convinced by his explanation. One of the reasons was our meeting with a mountain tribe. They were an extraordinary group of Indians, who provided the professor with a lot of material for his notebooks. A little farther on, somewhere on the eastern slopes, we came upon a magnificent wood of myrtles, and made camp there for a while. Nearby was a towering glacier which lent itself perfectly to study as a model of tectonic displacement, and Professor Haussmann proposed to make a detailed examination of its composition and movement. In addition, the local Indians had told him a great number of legends related to this mass of ice, which he said contained quite a few profound truths he wanted to verify. Nothing could have pleased Rossanna and me more, because the little wood was the most wonderful thing we had seen, the place that most stirred our tender feelings; in the midst of those slender golden trees, whose bark was like human skin, but icy to the touch, like no other tree in the world (European myrtles are warm), we rediscovered our love, writ large. We spent our days there, while the professor and the Indians were on the glacier, taking measurements, examining samples, constructing hypotheses. Callango alternated between the two, as though he were everywhere at the same time. More than once, in our transports, we suspected his eyes were spying on us. Of course that strange wood, which in fact was a single tree since all of them shared the same root (how could we or he hide, behind just one tree?), with the diamond of the glacier close by, were enough to create that impression. And also, I was twenty years old, and in love; my ardor prevented me from thinking straight. All I wanted to do was to contemplate Rossanna, who seemed if anything to have grown still more beautiful during the weeks of our journey. It was like having perfection in one’s grasp. Until one day. . that fateful day when, during a dark, torrid noontime, with the sky full of heavy clouds and a humid electricity in the air, the terrible event occurred. Howling and half naked, a tribe of unknown Indians fell upon us, without the slightest provocation. We were having lunch, in the doorway of the improvised hut where we slept. Spears came raining down, fortunately without doing us any harm, but they were followed by a more dangerous volley of rocks and lighted rags which set fire to our roof and scared off the mules. Our own poor Indians were petrified with fear. The professor and I fetched our shotguns, losing precious time while we loaded them, then fired almost at random. It was only at this point that we realized how vulnerable our camp was: it was in a hollow, with no easy escape routes. We had given it no thought, as there had been no indication we might be attacked. I gave my revolver to Rossanna and told her to withdraw in the direction the mules had vanished in. I thought I could frighten off our attackers with my gunfire, then follow her. You can imagine my distress when I heard shots from the revolver behind my back. Meanwhile, our attackers had come dangerously close. Our four Indians were dead, and there was no sign of Callango. As soon as I could, I left my position and ran after Rossanna. I met up with more Indians, who gazed at me with a crude bloodlust, or so I imagined. It was only the sound of my shotgun which kept them at a distance, a distance which kept changing, not only in extension but in position. In such a labyrinth, and bearing in mind the rocky terrain, it’s hardly surprising that I lost my sense of direction, especially considering the agitated state I was in. I don’t know how I was not killed. The fact is that a long while later I met up with the professor, beside himself and half-crazy, who was also trying to find an escape route. We were both alive and unharmed, but our shared concern was for Rossanna. I had a feeling which was almost a certainty: the savages had abducted her and then, satisfied with their booty (what more could they hope to gain from us?), they had pulled back. It was true we could no longer see or hear them. I swore to myself that I would find her, even if it took years to do so. I consoled myself with the thought that it would not be too difficult. The professor though was in despair over his daughter’s fate. We found the path back to our camp. The Indians had disappeared, taking their dead with them, and leaving the bodies of our assistants. They had stolen a few small things, as though to keep their hand in, and of course they must have taken our horses with them. There was no sign of Rossanna. Still less of Callango. We began a disorganized search. I dragged the old man into the myrtle wood. The daylight had faded although the storm had never broken, and we were in half-shadow. In fact, several hours had gone by without us noticing it, and nightfall was upon us. Our beloved wood seemed threatening and ugly. We crossed it without seeing a soul, while vague thunderclaps rolled round the mountains. Finally, I came to a halt, distraught, my mind a blank, with no idea what to do or where to go. The professor, who was in no better state than I was, suggested we make for the glacier. His words sounded strange. I didn’t really understand him. But he set off walking, and I followed. . ”

At this point, Clarke fell silent, and did not resume his story, because at that moment they met up with a band of Indians who were apparently heading at no great speed in a direction that cut across their own path. There were fifteen or so of them, all men, with a few heavily-laden spare mounts. Clarke and his companions had not spotted them because despite appearances they were in fact traveling quite quickly. The Indians shouted greetings that inevitably sounded rather wild, but generally friendly. They circled round the three of them.

“Who can they be?” Clarke wondered. Gauna had pulled up, to let him take the lead. There was nothing else for it.

He pushed his horse forward at a walk. None of the Indians responded, but there was one who seemed to be the center of the group. It was to him that the Englishman addressed himself, using common Mapuche: “Good afternoon.”

“And a very good afternoon to you,” the supposed leader replied. Then they fell silent for a moment. That was the problem on the pampa: it was almost impossible to ignore other people if you met them, but often there was nothing to say to them. Eventually the Indian, in a remarkable display of courtesy, deigned to ask: “What are you up to?”

Clarke of course chose to tell the truth:

“We’re going to visit Coliqueo’s camp.”

“Ah.”

Another silence.

“What about you?”

“Hunting.”

“Congratulations. Did you get anything?”

“A little and a lot.”

No doubt he would explain. And if he didn’t, it was neither here nor there. There were no introductions. After a brief consultation with his companions, the Indian invited the white men to make camp with them, as they were thinking of halting for the night at any moment. Clarke in his turn made a pretense of consulting Gauna. The strangers seemed fairly normal, sociable even. Everyone dismounted. Within a few minutes they had started a large fire, and were sitting talking. Next to Clarke were the Indian he had spoken to, who said his name was Miltín and claimed to be an anarcho-huilliche leader, and his brother. They had glasses, which they handed round and soon filled with a potato liquor. After a couple of initial toasts, Gauna and Carlos went to watch the Indians slaughtering some wild calves for dinner.

“Now tell me,” said Miltín, “where have you come from, if it’s not indiscreet to ask.”

“From Salinas Grandes.”

“Ah, is that so? Were you with that crazy old man?”

“With Cafulcurá? Of course.”

“What news is there of his son?”

“Namuncurá? He wasn’t there.”

“I reckoned as much. He’s so inconsiderate!”

“In fact, they didn’t say much about him, although we were staying in his tent.”

The glasses were refilled, and Miltín changed topics:

“And what has brought you to this wilderness, Mister. .”

“Clarke.”

“You’re British?”

“That’s right. A naturalist. I’m carrying out a field study.”

“Of?”

“Animals.”

“How interesting. Let’s drink to your success.”

They carried on in this vein for some time. The meat was brought to the fire, and the smell of grilling beef accompanied the glow of sunset. This hour of the day, usually so slow and silent for them, flew by in noise and hectic activity. Clarke, who by now knew a thing or two about Indians, was sure that the hunting they had spoken of was nothing more than a white lie: this was a group of liquor smugglers, who were returning loaded down with their merchandise, not a drop of which might reach its destination.

The ribs were served very rare, and there was no bread or other accompaniment. They were well seasoned though, to the extent that the salt formed a charred crust they had to crack open with their teeth. Clarke called to Carlos, who was chatting animatedly with some of the Indians, his cheeks ablaze from the alcohol, and asked him to fetch his canteen: if he did not calm his thirst with water, he would have to do so with liquor, and he couldn’t guarantee his reaction.

Night had fallen and they had all eaten their fill of meat, when Miltín, who was beginning to demonstrate the characteristic stubbornness of a drunk, insisted on showing off for his white guests the strange talents of one of his followers, whom he described as a shaman in the making. This fellow was a short, plump, unexceptional-looking savage, with a slightly darker skin than his companions, and who was smeared in a thick coating of grease.

“This man,” Miltín said, once he had persuaded Gauna and Carlos to sit next to Clarke, “has the incredible ability to enter into a trance whenever he wishes, in an instant, without having to prepare himself.” He paused, to give them a chance to swallow their disbelief, although in truth they had no idea what he was talking about. “Come on, show them.”

The Indian in question glistened immobile in the firelight. From behind him, a drunken voice shouted: “Ready. . steady. .!”

Miltín silenced up with a curse. Then he said to the fat man:

“Carry on.”

At once, they could see him go into a trance. Not a hair on his head had moved, but it was plain that his mind had flown a thousand leagues from them in the twinkling of an eye (not that his eye had twinkled either). He did not stir.

“Did you see that?”

“Incredible,” Clarke said. He cast a sideways glance at Gauna, fearing one of his sarcastic sallies, but the gaucho looked not only as bad-tempered and gloomy as ever, but also seemed drunk, and was not paying any attention. Young Carlos was looking on, open-mouthed.

“Now watch,” said Miltín. “Wake up!”

The Indian came out of his trance.

“Do it again!”

The same thing happened.

“Wake up!”

The same trick was repeated four more times. Clarke asked if the man saw visions.

“Who knows,” the chief said.

“It’s very likely he does.”

“Undoubtedly.”

The Indian returned to his companions, and Clarke and the chief resumed their talk. This shifted imperceptibly from paranormal phenomena to the subject of love, and the names of some of Cafulcurá’s children were mentioned. Clarke thought it was the right moment to find out more about Namuncurá. Miltín was not one of those who make a secret of what they know, quite the contrary:

“So they didn’t tell you where he had gone? I bet you didn’t ask the right person.”

“In fact, I didn’t ask anyone.”

“Ah, always the same delicacy, like all Europeans! I can’t see the point of it, because you’re still curious. I ask everybody everything, even how much money they have! What I’ve heard is that the good-for-nothing Namuncurá is chasing a woman, and his father must have gone white with fury when he learned who it was. Do you know?”

“No.”

“The headwoman of the Vorogas, the widow of the famous Rondeau.”

“You don’t say! Rondeau’s Widow!”

“Do you know her?”

“Only by reputation.”

“I congratulate you for never having met her. She’s a harpy, one of the most dangerous people loose on the pampa.”

“And Namuncurá is in love with her?”

“Who knows what is in a man’s heart? The fact is that for years he has pursued her, preferring to forget the fact that she spurned Cafulcurá himself when she was widowed.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“But that’s no more than scratching the surface of the story, the ‘gossip’ part. The background is historic. I don’t know if you’re aware that Cafulcurá, son of the famous Huentecurá, was a twin. His brother died young, but by all accounts they were identical, to the point where no one could tell them apart. So when one died, it could have been the other, couldn’t it? Anyway, that’s unimportant. The Huilliches though have made a mountain out of that molehill, enthusiastically promoted by Cafulcurá himself, who has gained political advantage from each and every one of the curious events that have occurred in his life. As things stand, one of the long-lasting foundations of his prestige is this line of twins, or multiplication of identity, which he is supposed to represent. I know you’re a civilized man, but please don’t think we are idiots. Consider our historical position. Faced with you white people, we Indians represent the survival of the human race, as against its extermination. So a myth, a symbolic or poetic element, can be of real importance. Now as you know, twins do not normally themselves have twins: Cafulcurá, who has had around eighty children, never had any. But his children should, and not just for purely biological reasons, but for the politico-magical dimension as well. Curiously though, none of them has. It’s in this context that the struggle for succession between Namuncurá and Alvarito Reymacurá has to be seen. Their reputation as womanizers is based entirely on their grotesque pursuit of these twins. Namuncurá has always held the advantage, because no woman can resist him. .”

“Really? Is he very good-looking?”

Miltín threw him a look which combined a hint of sarcasm and something darker, but merely said:

“In your style.”

Clarke, who knew he was not particularly handsome, said nothing. Then he asked:

“Yet it seems that the Widow. .”

“So it seems. Namuncurá could be playing a double game. On the one hand, it’s said that a long time ago, before her marriage to Rondeau, she had twins. That kind of predisposition is very valuable. It’s also possible that the rumor in fact started after Namuncurá began to pursue her. On the other hand, he could be after what no Indian leader has had before: a warrior queen, someone who is a political force in her own right, which could make up for the lack of twins — because when it comes down to it, that is nothing more than a shadow game.”

“It all seems rather far-fetched,” Clarke commented.

“Even so, it has a rational basis. You should judge by results, not by intentions.”

“But is it certain that Namuncurá is with the Widow? There were other versions circulating in Salinas Grandes about where that woman was, and what she was doing.”

“Ah, yes? What were they?”

As Miltín himself had said, he made no attempt to hide his curiosity. Clarke thought it wiser not to give him the latest news: he would surely find that out from another source, and he had been recommended to keep silent.

“I’m not sure, but as far as I understood, I think they were even afraid she might attack them.”

“Bah! they always say the same. As if the great Mapuche empire had anything to fear from a poor woman and her band of madmen. What is certain is that this time Namuncurá is risking everything, because word has it that the Widow is preparing for her final withdrawal to the Andes, where she came from originally. It seems she considers her time on the plains is drawing to a close.”

A loud snort from Gauna distracted Clarke. It seemed the tracker had been paying them close attention, and Miltín’s final words had startled him. But they were unable to continue their conversation, because a sudden argument had broken out among the Indians around the fire. The din was infernal. While Clarke had been talking, part of his mind had been following the stages of the Indians’ increasing drunkenness. He had heard them go through the “how much I love you, brother” stage; now they had reached the inevitable aggression and insults. Miltín had also continued to drink while they talked, and when he went to mediate in the dispute, he was every bit as inebriated as his followers. His intervention only served to make matters worse. By now, all of them were shouting in hoarse, slurred voices. The firelight added an extra glow to bodies which were already starting to lock in conflict. The funniest thing (or rather the only funny thing, because everything else was so sad in its degradation) was that they kept accusing each other of being drunk: “pie-eyed Indian! pie-eyed Indian!” they repeated like maniacs. And Miltín, the drunkest of all: “pie-eyed Indians!” They were taking it out on one man in particular, as drunk as the rest of them, who apparently had said something insulting about the tribe’s team — because the original argument had been about hockey. The outcome of the quarrel was as rapid as it was unexpected, and for the three white men as terrifying as a bad dream. A knife suddenly glinted among all the shining greased muscles, then its blade opened a wide slit in the throat of the arguer. It seemed that the killing was something that agreed with their chieftain, who was shouting and reeling about. The shock paralyzed Clarke, but not the Indians. In a further frenzy of meaningless violence, they repeated the slash (and even its shape) in the round, inviting belly of the dead man, then plunged their hands into the wound and began to pull out his intestines, with shouts that ranged from fury to amusement. The Englishman leapt up as if activated by a lever. He was overcome with an irresistible urge to re-assert humanity. He wanted to cry out something earth-shaking, but all he could manage, in imitation, was “Pie-eyed Indians! pie-eyed Indians!” Carlos and Gauna tried to hold him back, but unsuccessfully; he was also in his cups, and the alcohol made him reckless. He pushed his way through to the dead body, howling all kinds of insults against the killers and profaners; as best he could, he snatched the slippery guts from them and clumsily tried to stuff them back into the wound; since he was seeing double, he pushed some ends into the gaping throat. Fortunately, the Indians thought this was just another joke, otherwise they might well have stabbed him too. Miltín raised a glass above the scrum and called a toast, but Clarke, raging like a madman, knocked it from his grasp.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” muttered the drunkard.

“Animals, wild beasts!”

“What are you saying?”

The pair swapped the grossest insults. Luckily, neither of them could hear the other, because the Indians were shouting even louder than them. Clarke kept feeling at his belt in search of a revolver he had not worn for fifteen years; Miltín slipped and fell to a sitting position and stayed there, howling like a banshee.

Happily, outside the circle of violence, Gauna had retained a minimum of sangfroid. He sent the boy to grab Clarke, while he himself went to round up the horses. With the greatest difficulty, seeing he was in no great shape himself, Carlos succeeded in dragging Clarke some distance from the fire, where Gauna caught up with them and made them mount up.

“Animals, animals!” Clarke shouted, among other things.

The Indians did not even bother to prevent them leaving. Perhaps they were in no state to do so. What they did do was launch all kinds of scabrous taunts in their wake. One in particular, a man with a formidable voice, shouted after them for a long while. Clarke was sobbing with indignation and nerves. It was the moon which finally calmed him down. They rode on for two hours, at random of course, the main thing being to put distance between themselves and the camp. They halted when Carlos fell straight off his horse with a dull thud. The chill of the night had cleared Clarke’s head a lot, and he was worried by the fall, but the boy lay fast asleep and snoring on the ground. They spread out their things there and then, and, surrendering themselves body and soul to the mercies of the night, slept like logs.

The next day, as was only to be expected, their timetable was turned upside down. They slept all morning: since it was cloudy, the sun did not wake them. Then they rode for a while, their heads throbbing and their stomachs churning. What few comments they made were about the disgusting murder and how savage the Indians were. Gauna was even more taciturn than usual; it was obvious that he was obsessed by some idea. They were fortunate enough to come across a picturesque stream, where they bathed to refresh themselves from the heat of a gathering storm, then they drank a hasty cup of tea, and took a siesta. The rain woke them. Sheltering beneath the trees, they waited a long while for it to cease, and when it eased to a drizzle, they set off in the gloomy dusk. It continued to rain off and on, but since they were neither hungry nor sleepy, they continued to ride until, around midnight, the sky cleared and the moon came out. Immediately, they halted to make a fire, then, in marked contrast to the previous night, spent a short time sitting round it in silence, and soon fell asleep.

The next day was one of brilliant sunshine and gentle breezes. Their spirits lifted, the bad dream was left behind. The air was so clear that the horizon, perhaps the only thing to be seen, stood out with a special clarity. They could almost make out the far side of it, as if the line had become crystalline, a prismatic extension that divided the visible from the invisible, and broadened perspective beyond the normal. And it was precisely at this point that they saw the wanderer whose changing position had given the Englishman such cause for reflection.

“There he is again,” he said to Carlos.

“I can see him, I can see him.”

“Is he coming or going?”

“That I couldn’t tell you!”

“Let’s see. . if he is moving from left to right, that means he’s traveling in the same direction as us; if it’s the opposite, then he’s bound to cross our path without our realizing it, so that we’ll see him on the other side, on any other side, because that depends on where we are at the time. . What a mess! We should draw up a timetable, plot our relative positions in black and white. It makes me afraid we’re lost. I think I’m going to have to have a serious talk with Gauna.” He lowered his voice as he said these last words, but fifty yards ahead of them the gaucho’s shoulders shrugged visibly.

In the meantime, the wanderer had vanished again, like a speck of dust drifting out of a sunbeam.

“Who can it be?” said Clarke.

“Some Indian or other.”

“Of course. But where is he going? What is he thinking? Isn’t it intriguing to ask oneself that kind of question?”

“All questions are intriguing, Clarke: if not, they wouldn’t be questions.”

“Do you know what it made me think of, a moment ago? Of Natural Man. There was a time when I read about nothing else. In the last century it was an intellectual fashion. . it still is, in fact.”

“Natural Man?”

“Yes. With a little philosophical effort, you can imagine the characteristics of a man stripped of all the prejudices of reason, culture, customs, and so on. It’s similar to building an automaton, but by taking bits away rather than adding them. In the end you’re left with the essence, the naked heart. .”

“But that’s very poetic!”

“And scientific as well. Getting to know distant and exotic peoples, like the Indians we see here, fills one with ideas about Natural Man. Or at least it does me, who lacks imagination.”

“But we are always creating people in our fantasies.”

“Rousseau, one of the inventors of the idea of Natural Man, says that the creation of one man by another is the most obvious sign of a failure of education.”

“In that case, he was the one with no education.”

“He did die mad.”

“Really? That often happens to philosophers.”

“That’s the way of the world.”

“Isn’t it rather repugnant to create monsters?”

“If you think about it properly, yes. But that takes us back to Natural Man by another route. From the outset, man is a kind of monster, an improbable conjunction of mind and body.”

“What about those Indians we were with the night before last? Would you say they were natural or artificial?”

“Both things.”

“But which side would you say they were closer to?”

“What would you say?”

“Natural, in spite of everything.”

Clarke suddenly remembered his responsibility — however fleeting and accidental — as the educator of a young mind. He thought of the inevitable failure. This led him along tracks that took him back into his own past, and his autobiography (as he knew better than anyone) bore a mysterious relation to Natural Man. He spent the hours and leagues until lunchtime pondering these thoughts, while beside him Carlos Alzaga Prior was equally wrapped up in himself. Shortly after their siesta, toward the end of the afternoon, they came across a flock of ostriches, and soon afterward met up with the men hunting them, who turned out to be from Coliqueo’s tribe. When these Indians heard that the white men were intending to visit them, they put on a show of great amazement at the (nonexistent) coincidence, and escorted them to their camp, forgetting all about the ostriches — who, to judge by the speed they were traveling, must by now have circled the globe.