Читать книгу War, So Much War - Mercè Rodoreda - Страница 17

VIII

LIKE A SKELETON

I HEARD AN EXPLOSION COMING FROM THE DIRECTION OF THE mill, followed by flames and plumes of smoke. Throngs of soldiers were building a bridge across the river with rowboats and wooden planks. The sound of engines and men shouting was deafening. They must have worked all through the night. Soon trucks and cannons were crossing the bridge, and the white horse—crazed, neighing, rearing—stood in the middle of it all. Two silver planes circled above the bridge. An explosion sent jets of water spewing into the air. The bridge collapsed and four trucks fell into the river. What are you doing here? You look like a skeleton. Juli-Juli stood looking at me, shirt unbuttoned, face bloodied, hands trembling. You escaped a real mess by hightailing it. He asked me what I had done since I left. He was eager to talk, talk about anything. He sat down beside me. Don’t look. The water beneath the bombed bridge has turned crimson. We’re surrounded by dead soldiers. Talk as much as you like, but don’t look. Say something . . . quick. Don’t look toward the bridge. He laughed as he wiped the blood off his face with his arm. He laughed louder, closed his eyes, opened them again. His eyes were restless, never still. Did you know there’s a barmaid . . . she travels around in a wagon pulled by two horses that are just flesh and bones. Hush, I said, covering his mouth with my hand. Airplanes roared overhead; little by little the sound died away. Her name’s Faustina and she sells peanuts, belts with buckles shaped like skulls, tobacco mixed with grass, and stale drinks. An ambulance approached the bridge. Through the reeds I caught a glimpse of the horse; it was standing still. The water was sweeping away dead soldiers, wounded soldiers, scraps of rowboats, burnt wood. Juli-Juli predicted that the war was winding down and we would soon be returning home, waving our flags amid throngs of girls who would throw flowers at us. It’s in its final throes. Now we have to concentrate on saving our own skin. That, above all. He was quiet for a moment, and then he asked, have you ever flown? I fly at night. It keeps me from feeling hopeless. As soon as I lie down I imagine that, instead of a ceiling of reeds and plaster, above me there is the frenzy of the stars: trails of stars, fields upon fields of stars; and after a while of thinking only of the heavens, I start to float away and begin to fly. I see the mountains, the villages, the sea . . . all of it from up above. I had my eyes on the horse, which had started to move toward us . . . Then suddenly I couldn’t breathe: Someone was poking me in the back. Two soldiers were standing behind me. Everything is going to pieces and the two of you are jabbering away. Animals! Yackety-yak. Without even entrusting myself to God or the devil, and risking being shot, I gathered the strength to make a dash for the horse and mount it. As if a spring mechanism had been released, it galloped furiously away with me on its back. Two shots rang out. One of the bullets raised a small cloud of dust a few meters from me. We passed through a forest, an abandoned village, a smoldering farmhouse; until the horse came to a sudden halt, sending me headfirst into a trench filled with water. I landed on top of Bartomeu, the cook for the soldiers I had left behind, just as he was emptying a machine gun on the men on the other side, shouting, try that on for size!