The Hare

8: The Underground

When they awoke, the sun must have been high, even though it was still invisible behind the fog, and cast little more than a diffuse white glow in the center of a bluish-gray expanse remarkable above all for its immobility. An immobile world was one without light, even in full daytime. Clarke was awakened by Gauna repeatedly shaking his arm: and although he always prided himself on being instantly alert, this time he was sunk so deep in a mindless stupor, that he had no idea who he was, or what he was doing there. This was explained in part by what had recently happened to him, but also by what was happening to him now. They were surrounded by a number of upright figures, who loomed through the mist. There weren’t very many of them, although it took Clarke some time to realize this. He looked at Gauna, who as usual merely shrugged his shoulders. Clarke had sat on his saddle without being aware of it, and now searched for his boots. While he was pulling them on, his mind began to function. First of all in the past, reviewing the dreadful events of the previous night, then in the present. Naturally enough, he surmised that the present was a consequence of the immediate past, and that the strangers were, like them, fugitives from the disaster at Coliqueo’s camp. But he only had to draw closer to them to see this was not the case: there had been a kind of break in the night, and these were new people, the product of new circumstances, who were coming to greet him. Objectively, this was a relief. They were four pale little men, Indian-looking but smaller and whiter, who wore no paint or grease. They were dressed in bright colors, and seemed in fact a little overdressed for the season, wearing caps as well. Clarke bade them good-day, and they replied, without much of a smile but without being too curt either. He asked who they were, and it was only when they replied that he realized they did not speak the same language. He was momentarily perplexed. The Indian who spoke did so for perhaps three-quarters of a minute; as Clarke had not grasped his opening words, he lost all the rest as well. He turned for help toward Gauna, who was a good linguist. There he met another surprise. The gaucho had gone as white as a sheet, his eyes had turned up and a wheezing moan came from his gaping mouth. He was suffering an asthma attack, which must have been hours coming on, although in that case Clarke was surprised he had not lit a fire to burn his medicinal powders. He offered to do so for him now, but Gauna shook his head firmly and gestured as if to say: “carry on, carry on,” so Clarke turned back to face the Indians.

“Do you speak Voroga?” he asked.

“Of course. We are Vorogas,” the man who had spoken earlier replied. Clarke understood him perfectly. He suddenly realized he had understood before as well. They had said: “Good day to you, we trust we have not interrupted your sleep, but it was hard for us to contain our curiosity, because visitors here are so rare.” Why then had he imagined he had not understood? The logical explanation was to blame the difficulty he had felt waking up, but on reflection an illogical explanation was probably closer to the mark.

The ten languages in the Mapuche family, which Clarke had begun to study a decade and a half earlier, were distinguished from the other languages of the world by one essential feature: they were languages that were exquisitely deferential to foreigners, and not because their speakers chose to be, but because of their very structure, at least in their spoken form. When someone learns a foreign language, he inevitably commits all kinds of mistakes, even after lengthy study and frequent practice. Native speakers also make mistakes, except that they are not so much errors as the natural deformations that a prolonged automatic use of a language imperceptibly produces in such a delicate structure. Both kinds of distortion occurred in Mapuche, with the result that no one who began to speak one of their languages sounded like a beginner. Whether anyone else understood was another matter.

That other matter was also an interesting curiosity. Mistakes, bad habits, the stylizations of speech, all immediately appeared as a manifestation of art. Art may be understood in many different ways according to different cultures and ages, but these definitions all have one thing in common: art, the thing that is art, is that which does not demand understanding, since it is pure action whose meaning is a question of subjective choices. Formalities, intrinsic translations, were at the very heart of all the Mapuche languages. For this reason they had an old proverb which contained the key to all their behavior: “Do no more than talk.” Crossing their eyes, staring at the ground, were only a minor part of their meaning. The rest came from their words.

This then was all that Clarke’s misunderstanding amounted to: an instant. Fleeting as are all instants, even when placed end to end as it were, it passed, and he was now in animated conversation with the group of Indians.

“Do you live nearby?”

“Just down here.”

“Which leader do you follow?”

“Pillán is the name of our present monarch. If you are not in such a hurry as to make a short halt impossible, we should like to introduce you to him. We receive so few visits!”

“Pillán? I have not heard the name.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s only very recently taken up the position.”

“Ah, yes? Did he succeed to it?”

“After a certain fashion. In reality, I am sorry to tell you that we have suffered a power struggle, a civil war one might say — if that were not too grand a term for our tiny, submerged society.”

“My condolences. A civil war is still a civil war, even if it takes place within a single family.”

“By an extension of its very meaning!”

“If you like.”

A silence.

“Well. . would you do us the honor?”

“As far as I’m concerned, there’s no problem.” At this point, Clarke thought it desirable to introduce a note of democracy. “Wait until my friend here can speak, and I’ll ask his opinion.”

Gauna was still gasping for breath. The Indian who had been doing the talking made a suggestion which combined the most delicate courtesy with the most calculated sadism.

“Ask him now, so he can be considering his answer. After all, he can hear.”

These words struck home. Gauna rolled up his blanket and slung it on his horse’s back.

“To judge by his attitude,” Clarke said, lowering his voice, “I would guess that he agrees. Where are your horses?”

“Nowhere.”

“Pardon?”

“We don’t use horses.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s nothing to be so surprised at. We don’t need them, you see.”

“I don’t understand how you can do without such a useful animal if you live on the plains.”

“That’s just it: we don’t live on the surface.”

“Gentlemen, we’ll go with you.”

“Leave your horses right here. Josecito — ” he pointed to one of his followers “ — will stay to keep an eye on them, although it’s hardly necessary. For your peace of mind.”

“Let’s go,” Clarke said. Gauna came up, his eyes still bleary.

The Indian again:

“Far be it from me to give you advice, but I’d just like to mention that it seems one of your party is still asleep.”

“Mister Gauna?” said Clarke, somewhat put out at what he considered an unnecessary dig at his tracker’s continuing breathing problems. “Don’t worry about him. I don’t think he’s sleepwalking.”

“Right. I beg your pardon,” said the Indian.

“Are you feeling all right, Gauna?” Clarke asked him, to draw the matter to a close.

“Perfectly fine.”

“Just a moment,” the Indian interjected, pointing to the gaucho. “Is this Gauna?”

“Who else could he be?” Clarke answered, by now exasperated.

“What’s his name then?”

The Englishman followed the direction of the savage’s gaze, and was not a little surprised to see none other than Carlos Alzaga Prior sleeping peacefully at his feet.

“Of course, Carlos!” he exclaimed. “I’d completely forgotten him. Just imagine. If you hadn’t pointed him out, I would probably have left him here. I don’t know where I’ve put my head today.” He bent down to wake the youth up, but stopped halfway. “Look how he’s sleeping. The sleep of the innocent. Isn’t it a shame to wake him?”

“A real shame,” agreed Gauna.

Clarke shook Carlos. He pulled his boots on sulkily.

“These gentlemen,” Clarke told him, “have invited us to take breakfast in their tents, which just happen to be nearby.”

“They are not tents,” the Indian corrected him, “but we do hope our food will be to your liking.”

“Well then, let’s be off.”

The savages asked them to follow. They walked a short way into the whiteness, and Clarke realized that the fog was not solid, but occurred in pockets. They climbed up among the rocks, not far, but probably just enough: it seemed that at any moment they must reach the ceiling of mist, but instead it appeared to climb with them. Suddenly, without any transition, they were walking in an interior. It was obvious they had entered a cave. As they were still surrounded by mist for a while, their eyesight had time to grow accustomed to the new surroundings.

Pleased with the surprise he had given them, the Indian, after nudging the companion he was walking alongside (the third Indian was behind, next to Gauna, at whom for some unknown reason he was staring with open admiration), turned and said:

“We live in here.”

“How incredible!” exclaimed Clarke.

“You can have some beer and cakes as soon as we get there.”

“That’s all right, I’m not particularly hungry.”

“Can you see?”

“More or less.”

“We’ll soon have torches.”

Sure enough, a little further on, where the cave became narrower and really dark, the Indian took some small torches from the wall and proceeded to light them. Each of the three Indians held one and positioned themselves alongside the visitors, to shine it down at the floor for them. The ground was of a whitish stone, and was worn quite smooth by the tread of bare feet. It soon began to tilt downward, so that they had to take more care of how they walked. They turned bends, went down rough-hewn steps, sometimes even had to jump. Up ahead and behind them, everything was dark. Clarke had viewed the excursion as something perfectly natural, and far from worrying him, the unexpected turn (or rather descent) events were taking seemed to him delightful. Part of this delight came from the cruel satisfaction of knowing that Gauna must be furious. This reminded him of the tale the gaucho had told him the previous day. He had to admit it was a very solid and plausible story, but that was entirely due to the fact that it included all (or nearly all) the details of what had happened in reality; by the same token, there must be other stories which did the same, even though they were completely different. Everything that happened, isolated and observed by an interpretative judgment, or even simply by the imagination, became an element that could then be combined with any number of others. Personal invention was responsible for creating the overall structure, for seeing to it that these elements formed unities. Of course, Clarke was not going to put himself to so much trouble. . but he could swear, a priori, that apart from Gauna’s version, there must be an endless number of other possible stories. Moreover, between one story and another, even one that was really told and another that remained virtual, hidden and unborn in an indolent fantasy, there was not a gap but a continuum. And the existence of such a continuum, which at that moment appeared to Clarke as an undeniable truth, created a natural multiplicity, of which Gauna’s story was shown to be merely one more example. But Clarke had no intention of telling Gauna this, because that would be to run the risk of no longer counting on his company. To Gauna, his story was not simply one among many, but the only one.

Even though they were going deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth, they could still feel currents of air, and from time to time crossed chambers with lofty ceilings. Then all of a sudden a light shone ahead of them. “We’re almost there,” their Indian guide said. Turning to his companion who was still admiring Gauna, he told him: “Llanquén, go and tell Pillán.”

“OK,” Llanquén said, and scuttled off.

“Welcome to our humble abode, Gauna, Carlos, and Mister. .”

“Clarke,” said the Englishman, who had not previously introduced himself

“Equimoxis, at your service.”

“What an odd name.”

“My mother had a priest name me: it was taken from a book found in an ox-cart wreck in the Andes many years ago. The book was called Memoirs from Beyond the Tomb.”

“I know it. By Chateaubriand.”

They had reached the end of the passageway; in front of them opened a vast chamber, made to seem all the larger for not being completely lit; the hundred or so fires that were burning produced as much effect as a match struck in a cathedral. There was no smoke, a sure sign there must be fissures in the roof of the cave which provided air. The clear, dark atmosphere, like that of a summer night, the cool temperature, the silence free even of the sounds of birds or insects, offered them a welcome that was far more eloquent than Equimoxis’s words.

“An underground city!” Carlos Alzaga Prior exclaimed in astonishment. “I never thought life would be so generous as to reward me with such an amazing discovery!”

“My dear young friend,” Equimoxis told him with a paternal smile, “it’s not a city since, as you can see, there isn’t a single house. It’s an interior-exterior. And as for discovering us, I fear you aren’t the first, far from it. Only last week, to go back no further, we had a visit from one of Rosas’s officers.”

They had set out on a stone path — or rather, they followed a line across the stone that they would have crossed anyway, toward a group of fires clustered together more closely than the others. A small party of Indians came to greet them. The Indians were naked (they must only wear clothes to go outside); a tall, white-skinned individual with fierce features stepped forward. This was their leader, Pillán.

“It’s an honor to have you with us. Which one of you suffers from asthma?”

“I do,” grunted Gauna, who hated any mention of his illness.

“Come over to the big fire; my wives are expecting you. I had a special preparation made up for you, from eucalyptus seeds, that’ll ease the problem in no time.”

Having done his duty in this way, Pillán addressed himself formally to Clarke, squinting as he did so.

“Words fail me. . ”

“Think nothing of it! We were in the area, and at a loose end.

. .”

“Mister. . Clarke, isn’t it? Your name sounds English.”

“I am English.”

“And what has brought you so remarkably far from your homeland?”

“Studies, nothing more.”

“Historical studies?”

“Natural history.”

“Botany? Zoology?”

“The second rather than the first.”

“Then I must show you the little dogs we keep. But after breakfast, if you’ll do me the honor of accompanying me.”

They went over to the fires. These Indians had few possessions. Little more than blankets and clothing carefully folded on the stones, and some very artistic pots, all of them out on display, nothing kept in trunks or bags. As is the case with natural and fortunate peoples, they themselves were their only riches. Except that, although for the moment they seemed relaxed and contented, they bore signs of not always having been so. Their bodies were crisscrossed with great weals, scars that had turned pink and scarlet due to the lack of sunlight. Their chieftain was the worst in this respect, his skin offering a veritable showcase of knife cuts. The raised area next to the fire where Pillán brought the Englishman and Carlos was occupied entirely by men. The women were further off: plump, attractive creatures whose aggressively indigenous features contrasted with their white, barely ocher, skins. Apart from those who were fanning the concoction designed to help Gauna’s breathing — which seemed to be doing him a world of good — the other women stood idly by. Clarke surmised that the Indians liked an easy life. He could tell simply by the way they moved. Not that they moved all that much, and besides, who could tell what was going on in the more distant chambers? There must have been about two hundred Indians sitting or lying about around fires that gave off a brilliant light but little heat (which was unnecessary anyway). The atmosphere was one of a calm evening get-together after a day’s hunting or traveling, a reunion that was drawing to an end as everyone considered

going to sleep, the only oddity being that it was ten in the morning. They were immediately served beer and cakes; the Indians limited themselves to watching them eat. When they had finished their meal, the conversation began.

“I envy you,” Clarke said impulsively, “the calm you enjoy in the. . underground.”

“It’s not always this way,” Pillán replied. “We’re a very warlike race.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“For countless generations.”

That was too vague to be the whole truth. But the Englishman, who out in the wilderness had become used to pursuing the truth by roundabout means, let this comment pass.

“Have you not tried directing your aggression against external enemies?”

“The thing is, we don’t actually have any enemies. It would cause too many problems. For a start, we’d have to go outside.” Pillán paused for a moment, then declared in a solemn tone: “As far as the vagaries of fate are concerned, we prefer to follow the line of least resistance.”

Clarke inquired about their means of subsistence. These were simple in the extreme: a little mining, some aphotic grains they used for making flour, a minimum of hunting and nighttime robbery. They obtained drink by bartering the high quality coal they dug from their caves. Their arts and crafts? These were reduced to two: not to tire themselves too much, and to congratulate themselves on anything that turned out well. They practiced a fair amount of gymnastics, and were comprehensively promiscuous in their enjoyment of sex. Most unusually for Indians, they had no interest in games of chance. They played music, mostly on portable organs such as Clarke had already seen in Chile. They did so very sparingly however, as any philharmonic excess might spoil what appeared to be their favorite social pastime: sleep. Recumbent bodies were scattered throughout the cave; all conversation was in low voices, and the dogs were silent. Occasionally a muted croaking could be heard: this was their edible frog farm, Pillán explained. Carlos was struck by the sight of several Indians gliding past them at ground level without moving a muscle, as though they were on a moving belt. The chieftain invited them to go and look: it was a stream of water on which small boats circulated. He told them that several of these streams crossed the chamber, as well as some freshwater springs. The Indians thought, quite reasonably, that the rock floor of the cave must float on a huge reservoir of deep water. The temperature was the same throughout the year. Gas never leaked out, nor were there any sudden seasonal falls in pressure. They could not recall any seismic activity — if there had been any, they would have left in a flash: for them, the caves had no mythical dimension, they were merely convenient, an effective way of living.

Thoughtful, Clarke stared up at the roof. The dark recesses cast back their blind gaze.

“Do you go outside much?”

“As little as possible. Some of us, never.”

One thing intrigued Clarke. He had known many tribes of America, with an incredible diversity of lifestyles, but one thing was common to them all: their constant and vital relationship with the stars. He could not imagine a primitive culture doing without them. He said as much to Pillán, who paused for a moment’s respectful consideration before giving his reply.

“Well now, Mister Clarke. There are two aspects to that question. The first is the relation we have to the truth, or more precisely to meaning. The reason you consider us primitive (no, don’t worry, I didn’t take it amiss) can only come from the fact that, unlike you, we do not have a God, or a monotheist system, to provide a general framework of meaning for us. We Indians ‘still’ find ourselves at the stage of potentiality: a sign is not guaranteed by reference to a meaning, but by its position within a specific framework. It is also the case, and I think this is the key to your puzzlement, that since the stars are pure perception, are purely visible without any possibility of becoming tangible, they need constantly to demonstrate their reality, if possible every night. That is the paradox of an imaginary system which needs to be real in order to generate all its images.

“Now, look at our own black, immutable sky, our rock. It’s exactly the same. Points of darkness replace points of light. It is we who are the stars, the living memory of our lives, lived without days or nights on the margins of time. Meaning continues to exist however, whether or not there is a God or a sky. It may be that to go on believing in ourselves demands an extra dose of energy from us, but we do not regret it. We dream a lot, because we sleep so much.”

He paused before continuing:

“As for the other aspect of the question, which as I understand it concerns happiness, I can offer you no such clear-cut reasons. Nature is man’s happy passion, and the stars confirm that. That is all they do: such is their function. But here beneath the earth we are the most passionate of people, because we set no store by the conservation of life. It could be said that the sickness is the cure. Indifference contains within it one supreme value: the abandonment of everything, the infinite virtuality of the instant.”

Gauna yawned ostentatiously.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Clarke said, “but you wouldn’t know if a lady by the name of Rondeau’s Widow has passed by here recently, would you?”

“Yes. That good-for-nothing. . she was here a few days ago, asking us to lend her a young woman.”

“Did you?”

“Not on your life. Do you take us for traders in human flesh? We asked her why she didn’t turn to her relative Coliqueo, who is staying near here. . ”

“And what did she say to that?”

“That Coliqueo had suffered a devastating surprise attack and was in no state to conduct any kind of transaction.”

“She lied to you. .”

“I suspected that from the start.”

“. . because it was only last night that Coliqueo was attacked.”

“I hope he was killed.”

“When we left he was alive, trying to renegotiate everlasting peace.”

“What a shame. I suspect that all this activity is because a certain diamond is due to change hands. .”

Although Gauna did not move a muscle, his aroused wariness struck Clarke like a hammer blow. Pillán went on:

“. . a diamond that belongs to us: the Legibrerian Hare.”

“You know what it is?”

The chieftain gave a fleeting smile.

“Yes and no. Of course, the stone does not exist. Yet even so, it belongs to us.”

“I don’t understand. Could you explain?”

“It’s quite simple. Doubtless in the distant past a tiny diamond was discovered in our carboniferous deposits — or perhaps not even that was necessary. What is beyond doubt is that one of our legendary tales concerns a hare that was fleeing across the plains to escape from a crazy horse that wanted to eat it, and it fell down a hole. Down and down it fell through the darkness, and its eyes puffed up more and more, while it saw scenes that are an important part of the story, but which I won’t bore you with now; by the time it reached the bottom, it had been transformed into a diamond. A naturalist explanation of the story would involve the transformation of carbon into diamond as a result of pressure. . though now that I come to think of it, it’s a good example of what I was saying earlier: the star in the bottom of the pit, the transmutation of the opaque into the transparent, the chase of words after meaning. . I don’t know if that’s made it any clearer for you.”

The three men’s stay in the cavern went on for an indeterminate length of time; it could have been a day, or a week. They ate, bathed in the placid waters of the springs, until finally they felt the need to depart. As they were taking their leave, Carlos asked the chief if he had ever heard of such and such a girl, pregnant, with a pretty face, who went by the name of Yñuy. No. They had never heard the name, or known of anyone by that description. By contrast, they did know of someone else the three of them had described, and as luck would have it the men who were to take them back to the open air, led by the very outgoing Equimoxis, were on a mission to find out more about him: this was none other than the famous Wanderer.

“Who is he?” Clarke asked with interest.

“I wish we knew. He appeared a few days ago, and we’re very worried by him.”

This was surprising. How had they of all people become aware of this always distant and fleeting presence? And how could he affect them? Both questions, Pillán explained, could be answered together. Clarke reflected that it was only when guests had their hand on the doorknob to leave that the conversation became really interesting.

“The underground world,” said Pillán, “is not strictly speaking autonomous (nothing is); nor have we ever lived under the illusion that it was. It is a temporary ‘parallel,’ whose worth changes daily according to its face value. That is why we are so alert to the changing circumstances outside, because to a certain extent we are those circumstances. And if it is true that news flies, it is no less true that it also sinks to the depths at an incredible speed. The ‘surprise guest’ is always a latent possibility. This strange Wanderer has come to fill a gap created not by the circumstances but by the system itself. I can’t say that we were expecting him, but nor can I say the opposite. He would appear to represent a complex of speeds, distances, and directions inherent to the surface world, a world upon which, as I’m sure you understand, our depths depend. Please don’t see us as excessively intellectual — far from it! — just because we are so interested in what might seem a tiny, distant variation in the logical ordering of the plains; it’s vital for us.”

“Is there some relation,” Clarke wanted to know, “between him and that. . gem?”

“As I think I told you, the gem does not exist. Our brothers in the parallel world are chasing, bedazzled, after a fiction.”

“What do you believe then is really at stake in all this?”

“Don’t get me started on philosophical explanations again. .”

“You’re right, we’ll say goodbye then. Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

“And thank you for your hospitality.”

“Don’t mention it. But we didn’t even get to talk of speleology!”

Clarke burst out laughing. Carlos asked him:

“What’s that?”

“I’ll explain to you later. Farewell, farewell.”

Equimoxis led the way up to the cave mouth. He was with another ten or so Indians, all of them warmly dressed. As they were leaving the great chamber, the three of them turned to give it one last look: as ever, it was filled with a calm grandeur. They started on the upward path. This time of course, it cost them more effort than when they had come down; before they had even reached halfway, the group was like a chamber orchestra of panting. They halted to get their breath back. Clarke asked Equimoxis who they were going to consult for information about the Wanderer. Equimoxis told him of some mint-growers who were their usual informants. They were normally to be found near the cave entrance, which made things all the easier for the Indians.

“In that case,” said Clarke, “we won’t be traveling together.”

They renewed their climb, and eventually an intense light shone above their heads. It was daylight. They took the final stretch very slowly, so that their eyes could readjust. The light seemed to fade while they were doing so, and once they were outside they discovered that this was in fact what had happened, because it was late afternoon. By the time they were out in the open, the sun had set. Even so, the luminosity made them hesitate. Their horses were nearby: the Indian called Josecito said he had kept them in the shade and well-watered. As they were no longer accustomed to them, their horses seemed like huge, clumsy beasts. But they were soon in the saddle and ready to take possession of the pampa once more, as it stretched out beneath their feet — or rather, those of their mounts — in the gentle blues and pinks of the sunset. The Indians looked tiny. After the customary bowing and scraping, they said farewell. Then they were on the move again. Within a matter of seconds they had resumed their usual positions, with Gauna a hundred yards up ahead, Clarke and his young friend conversing as they rode side by side, and the troop of horses bringing up the rear. The pace was brisk.

“What did you make of them?” Clarke asked Carlos.

“I thought they were delightful. So simple, so open. . it’s incredible that they should kill each other six times a year. Lucky we were there during a truce.”

“Who knows whether that was true?”

“They didn’t get all those scars from embroidering.”

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or is Gauna getting further and further ahead?”

“He’s in a hurry.”

“He thinks he has reason to be. I’ll tell you later the complicated nonsense he’s got into his head. He was explaining it to me while we were with Coliqueo.”

“Is it something to do with the Widow?”

“Correct: he claims she is his half-sister, and is planning to steal a family diamond from him. .”

“Ah, this time he really has gone crazy!”

“Let’s change the subject. He might be listening to us, and his hearing’s as sharp as a bat’s.”

“By the way, where are we heading?”

“After the Widow; where else?”

“Well, after all it could be an interesting experience. We’ve had forty already. .”

“And as the Widow is only forty-one. .”

They laughed like schoolchildren. The sky was turning a deep blue, the land was dark. A partridge gave Clarke a shock, and this brought fresh laughter from Carlos. The stars came out, like faithful old friends. They reached a spot where a skunk had fought an armadillo, and galloped on until they got away from the ghastly smell.