Читать книгу Trout, Belly Up - Rodrigo Fuentes - Страница 5

TROUT, BELLY UP

That family stuff’s complicated, I told Don Henrik. He’d just asked about Ermiña, who’d been my cousin, then my girlfriend, and is now my wife. The thing is, I told him, it’s hard to find a woman like Ermiña up here in the mountains. She keeps the kids in line and makes a finger-licking-good chicken soup, but she also knows when to pick a fight and when not to. When’s that then? asked Don Henrik. Well, if I don’t get my coffee in the morning, she knows it’s not worth it. Any other time, sure. But no coffee, then a whole day out on the trout farm – how can she possibly pick a fight with me after that? What I didn’t tell him is the way Ermiña curls up to me on cold nights, or how she looked all those years ago when I glimpsed her bathing in the river, her plump body shiny with soap. She wasn’t surprised to see me coming out of the bushes, clumsily taking off my clothes, and she just stood there, a look of amusement on her face as I stumbled over the rocks on the riverbank.

We only had girls, Ermiña and me, I told Don Henrik, not a single boy. I tried to focus on my feet, squeezed into the rubber boots Don Henrik himself had given me. First came Tatinca, I said, then Ileana. The third was Ilopanga, and the last one we called José, for Maria José. We tried to get José into football. The other three would stay at home with their mum while José and I took the ball up the mountain. I’d pass it and

José would knock it back to me, and so we went through the back of beyond, tiki-taka to and fro, until one of my passes went too high and José bravely went in for a header but instead stopped the ball dead with her nose. So that was our last training session. Since then the kid’s barely left Ermiña’s side, I told Don Henrik. A proper limpet, poor love.

Don Henrik took a drag on his little cigarette – all

cigarettes look little in his enormous hands – and, looking out at the grove of trees in front of his farm, said that there were worse things in life. And with that we settled the matter, or at least that’s what I understood Don Henrik to have decided. He poured more rum into my plastic cup (the glass tumbler was for his use only) and there we sat, on the wooden terrace Juancho and I had built for him.

The syrupy spirit took me back to when I first met Don Henrik, and those long hours I spent in the hammock at my aunt’s – Ermiña’s mum – wondering what to do about the family expenses, where I was going to find work, or, frankly, how to get the hell out of there. The sheet metal roof reflected different colours depending on what angle you looked at it, and I used to spend whole afternoons craning my neck, trying to find just the shade I was looking for. One day Bartolo came down the lane shouting, in that grating, twangy voice of his, that there was to be a meeting. Hoping to get rid

of him, I yelled that I’d be up in a minute, before settling back into the hammock. That was my first mistake: Ermiña, who’d been cooking in the other room, came out to see what was going on. The two of them spoke quietly outside, and before long I felt her approach (it freaks me out how silent she can be sometimes), stick her face over the side of the hammock, and ask me to please go with Bartolo. She stood there unmoving until I got up.

In the community centre, which still doesn’t have a roof, Don Henrik had stacked two plastic chairs one on top of the other (the only way they’d hold his weight). Sitting facing him were Tito Colmenares, Bartolo, and Juancho. Juancho scowled at me as soon as I came in. We’re cousins too and I think that’s why he resents me. Ermiña once hinted that Juancho thought I was a good-for-nothing, and we’ve been sizing each other up from a distance, silently cursing each other ever since. Ermiña seems less bothered about it now, as though Juancho confirmed her suspicions about him with

his spitefulness.

That afternoon Don Henrik talked about his life out east, about the melon plantations he’d set up, about other ‘interesting’ projects, and my mind had just started to wander when he opened the icebox between his feet and pulled a huge fish out by its tail.

Do you know what this is? he asked, holding it up.

We shifted in our seats, glancing at each other.

It’s a trout, said Don Henrik, ignoring someone’s raised hand. A rainbow trout.

He turned the creature over, as though wanting the sun to catch all its hidden colours, but in truth it just looked like any old fish.

This right here is going to bring progress to the mountain, he said, and lifted the trout even higher.

That’s when I realised Don Henrik was a bit barmy, and I started to warm to him.

Don Henrik had travelled all over the world, and in Norway, he told us that afternoon, he’d learned all there was to know about breeding trout. Gesturing towards the top of the mountain and his plot of land, he described where the first cement tanks would go – three metres in diameter, eight hundred trout in each one – and detailed how he’d filter the water, connect pipes up to the spring, feed and fillet the fish.

When he finished he got to his feet, still holding the fish by the tail, and asked us to line up in front of him. We all looked at each other, a bit confused. Fine, said Don Henrik, resigned to the fact that nobody was moving. He stared at me a long while, but I think it was just because I’ve got a big nose – it always gets people’s attention. Then he looked round at the rest of them, one by one, and in the end gestured, trout in hand, to Juancho and Bartolo. Those two were chosen to start work on the trout farm.

If Bartolo hadn’t broken his leg the next day when a pregnant cow attacked him in the middle of a field, I’d still be lying in that same hammock at my aunt’s place. But fortunes can change, even if no one ever gets any richer.

Work on the trout farm’s been hard. The nights are cold up here, and after levelling the ground and building the first two tanks Don Henrik ran out of money. He had to go back to the capital to find more, leaving Juancho and me in charge. At least I’ve got my family to keep me company. Don Henrik just about manages to scrape together our wages, and visits every couple of weeks to see how the project’s progressing, which it never is, though I suppose things aren’t getting any worse either.

Ermiña and I have had some problems. I have to admit: it’s not all happy families on the trout farm.

*

The first problem is Juancho. Let’s just say he’s got the same nose as me (although not quite so prominent), drags his feet when he walks – sign of a bad conscience – and sometimes when I talk to him he just stares at me, unblinking, with those cow eyes of his, like he’s got no idea what I’m saying. This annoys me, because I know he might be slow but he’s not a total imbecile. I could be telling him that one of the fish tanks has got a crack in it or describing the latest Parcelas match, his expression would be exactly the same. I’ve thought about goading him into a fight, ambushing him down some dark track, but he’s bigger and stronger than me and losing to him would be a real blow.

The second problem with Juancho is that he came up here to get away from something. It’s obvious, no matter how tight-lipped he is. We’ve got our routine now: I clean the tanks and take care of feeding and looking after the trout. I also give Ermiña a hand in the vegetable garden next to our hut, where the clearing with the tanks ends and the forest begins. Juancho patrols the plot day and night, doing the necessary repairs and making sure all the pipes are working properly. He likes to take the rifle out with him, the one Don Henrik left us, but he also carries a pistol in his belt. One time I found him in the forest, sitting on the trunk of a fallen oak. He was looking up above the trees where occasionally you’ll catch sight of a quetzal, the pistol in his hand. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him fire a bullet into one of those poor birds. Ermiña told me (God knows how she finds these things out) that some men came by his shack to leave him a message, before he moved up here. They

asked him for money – too much money. They’re relations from down the mountain, Ermiña told me, it’s something to do with inheritance. I think that’s why he wanted to

work with Don Henrik, to get away from that side of the mountain and be closer to the summit, up here where the only access is along a muddy track.

Juancho goes into the forest every day and disappears off towards the spring where the pipes start. He sits there listening to the water bubbling away, or doing who knows what, and then he’ll walk around the edge of the plot until he comes out down below, where the waste water from the tanks drains into the river. I’ve followed him, and let me tell you, that man does not bear his burden lightly. Sometimes, from the tanks, I see his face appear out of the forest and look carefully around him before he emerges. And at night,

when we turn out the lights in our hut, I glance down at the metal shack where he sleeps and see his little candle through the darkness. His stubborn silence has started to scare my daughters, and the truth is it’s getting to me too. I don’t want my family anywhere near a victim of extortion, let alone one that doesn’t pay up when he’s asked.

*

Trout are delicate creatures and can’t handle temperatures over thirteen degrees. That’s why Don Henrik bought his land right at the top of the mountain, because he wanted ice cold spring water. But despite being delicate, they’re completely savage. They eat meat, even their own. Little cannibals, my Ermiña calls them. I remember the first weeks on the trout farm when I’d spend long periods watching them swimming anti-clockwise, all together like a big happy family. One time a trout began to peel off from the group, rising in tighter and tighter circles until it was flapping about near the surface. Its mouth started to gape, and it went belly up, spinning all silvery on its axis. Then something strange happened. Another trout came up to see what was going on, sniffing at its companion, and from one moment to the next the whole tank freaked out. The water was churning, looked like it was boiling, and the surface filled with the metallic flashes of a knife fight. A minute later everything had calmed down. The big family was once again swimming anti-clockwise. There was no sign of the trout that went belly up.

*

I first met Analí when I went down to the village shop one day with José, just after I started work on the trout farm. She placed the bag of cement and the wire on the counter, and, after handing me my change, smiled at my daughter.

So handsome, she said, he looks just like his Dad.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was a girl. And

I know I shouldn’t have cared, but I was pleased with the compliment.

The next day I went down again without José. My heart was thumping as I approached the shop, and I hid behind a tree to check whether Analí was with anyone. She looked beautiful in her little dress behind the counter, smiling at something on her phone.

I went in acting all casual and before long was showing her the funny videos I’d saved: a Velorio skit, that clip of a drunk who won’t let go of his sippy cup, another of a Chinese peasant riding a huge pig like it’s a stallion. Such a pretty laugh, Analí, so quick to make my heart beat faster.

Up here on the trout farm you can hear birds screaming and howler monkeys roaring from the top of the mountain range. My dog Baloo, who guards the farm at night, gets into a scrap with a paca about every three days. He even brought me a coral snake hanging from his muzzle one afternoon.

So we’re not exactly alone, though it definitely feels that way. That’s why I told Ermiña that she and the girls should walk the four kilometres down to the village that weekend, to spend a night with her mum. I’d stay here and look after things with Juancho; if Don Henrik found out I’d taken off, I’d be out of work. As they turned to say goodbye, I melted at the sight of José waving those little hands that one day could be the hands of a great goalie.

I spent a couple of hours tending to the trout, watching the sky turn orange, and when it was almost dark I started heading down myself. Instead of following them to the village, I took the path that skirted the sweetgum plantation, a kilometre from the trout farm. I had to wait half an hour before I spotted the light of

a mobile phone in the darkness. It was Analí on her way up to the place we’d agreed on, and I knew she’d seen me because the light started to approach more

slowly.

Hello, troublemaker. I was about to give up on you.

What, and leave me here all by myself? she asked.

It was so dark all I could see was her phone screen, the silhouette of her hand barely visible.

As if I could I leave you here alone, I replied.

The heat I’d been carrying around inside me made my whole body tingle.

Analí wheezed as she suppressed a laugh, and I suddenly remembered the noises José used to make, years ago, when she had bad lungs. I shook my head to shake away the thought.

Do you have a boyfriend? I asked her.

Analí took her time answering.

Not anymore, she said after a while.

Lucky me then.

She didn’t reply, but I sensed that something had changed in the darkness.

Aren’t I? Lucky? I insisted.

Depends, said Analí, on how you see it.

Well from where I’m standing I can’t see a thing, I told her.

Me neither, actually, she said.

Her voice was different too.

I felt my way over to her, working out where her body was. And so, in the dark, we began to kiss. God, she was a good kisser.

*

In order to level the ground for the trout farm, Don Henrik had to use a machine brought in from San Agustín. All this was virgin forest, and the machine ploughed night and day through the undergrowth, shifting big rocks half-buried in the ground. He only cut down one caoba, because the trees here are huge and, rightly or wrongly, Don Henrik respects age. That clearing now contains the two tanks, my hut, Juancho’s little shack, and the wooden terrace Don Henrik asked us to build, all surrounded by thick forest. You still have to cut it back every day, because every day the ferns, vines and climbers try to gain back territory from us. But I like using the machete to protect this clearing

of ours.

The best time of day is evening, when we get together around the tanks. Ermiña comes out of the hut, the girls start appearing from the forest, accompanied by Baloo, and I go and get the bag of fish food. Everyone grabs a handful. We take it over to the edge of the tank, count to three, and at the same time each toss our handful towards the sky. As soon as it touches down the surface is whipped up by the splashing trout. I love watching my girls then, their mouths half open and their eyes wide, as though seeing it all for the first time. Ermiña smiles to herself quietly, focused on our daughters too, and at that moment I’m filled with the kind of happiness I only usually feel when I’m alone on the rock at the top of the mountain. We wait until the splashing dies down, the last smack of a fishtail glinting in the evening light, and then we all go into the hut for dinner.

*

Don Henrik arrived at the trout farm two weeks after my first encounter with Analí. Juancho, my wife and I got together on his terrace and sat on the plastic chairs he’d brought with him on the previous trip. He paid the wages he owed us and asked me to bring him the glass (I’ve got it in the hut for safekeeping). From the front seat of his 4x4 he brought out three plastic cups and a bottle of rum, and filled them all to the brim.

We’ve started to make a bit of money, he told us, raising his glass.

We raised ours too and toasted him. Juancho, the faker, made as if the drink was burning his throat. Ermiña took one sip of hers and began to sneeze.

Hallelujah! said Don Henrik, who’d been drinking on his way there, and filled our cups again.

We have new clients, he said, now settled in his chair, two more restaurants in the capital want our trout. This is going to be a huge project, he added, and the glint in his eye as he looked around him began to fire my enthusiasm.

He lit a cigarette and put on his boss’s voice to announce that he’d brought a new batch of trout eggs.

Don Henrik orders the eggs from Norway, where he has contacts. When they arrive we have to put them in the incubator, which is really just an ice box, and when they begin to hatch we move them to the first tank to fatten them up.

Rainbow trout eggs are orange with little black dots – those are the baby trout. Don Henrik says in

Russia they eat it as caviar, but I can’t stand it, personally. With every batch of eggs we learn something new. These days we only have a seven percent mortality rate. I know this for a fact because it’s my job to keep the official count, though in reality only six percent of the trout actually die. The remaining one percent I

take out of the tanks when they’re fat enough and we eat them ourselves. It’s the only meal Juancho will share with us. José starts jumping up and down when she sees me piling up logs to one side of the clearing.

As soon as the fish have been skewered, the four girls start dancing round the fire. Seeing them like that, happy and wild, makes me jump up and down on the inside myself.

That night Don Henrik got more drunk than usual. We made him up a corner of the hut, shifting the freezer where we keep the trout when they’re ready for delivery, and while he was undressing – his huge belly hanging over his white underpants – he repeated again that we were nearly there, that the business was about to take off. At dawn he headed to the capital and didn’t come back for a month and a half.

*

A couple of nights later I was woken by my phone vibrating. The hut lit up with a bluish light and I had to cover the screen with my hand. For a second I thought Ermiña had also woken up, but I checked and it turned out just to be her left eye, which sometimes opens when she’s asleep. I looked at the message and recognised Analí’s number – I knew it off by heart.

Mmmmm, it said.

I went hot all over and my toes started to twitch of their own accord. I turned the phone face down and lay there on my back for a moment, unable to go back to sleep. Mmmmm, I thought, and, unable to control myself, groped around for the phone so I could look at it again.

Mmmmm.

I was on the point of turning it off when I heard a noise in the corner of the room, where the four girls sleep on the mattress Don Henrik gave us when we started the project. I thought I could make out José watching me. Slightly uneasy, I turned off the phone and tried to go back to sleep. I could barely keep my eyes shut.

The next weekend I told Ermiña I’d have to take the trout to the bus station in San Agustín. From there we send them to the capital. I got the ice box ready, loading it onto the quad bike Don Henrik had brought for transporting materials. I sent one last message to Analí, agreeing a meeting place, and set off down the hill.

She was waiting for me where the path forked, heading up to the top of the mountain in one direction and down to San Agustín in the other.

Hello troublemaker, I said.

She got on the bike behind me without saying a word.

What did you tell your family? I asked. The smell of Pert Plus was overwhelming. I felt high just from breathing it.

That I was going out with you, that you wanted to do things with me.

A warm shiver ran up the back of my neck.

Seriously? I asked.

Seriously. Didn’t you tell yours the same? she asked.

And with that we settled the matter. She put her hands around my waist and rested her head on my back.

I had to kick the starter a couple of times. As I was getting the engine going I realised I was going to have to be careful.

We dropped the trout off at the station in San Agustín then headed towards El Templo, a guesthouse run by my pal Maynor. Maynor had put vases of gardenias in the room and two little chocolates rested on the crisp pillow. It was in that room that I realised I was getting rusty, or rather that, frankly, Analí had more experience than I’d imagined, and I’d imagined plenty.

You need to watch it, I told myself again when we emerged from the room an hour later, but promptly forgot. I’d showered to get rid of the smell, although the fragrance of Pert Plus had already made its way inside me, into my blood.

On the way back up Analí held my waist more tightly. When we arrived at the fork in the road she got out without a word, gave me a kiss, and disappeared down the path.

*

When I got back to the trout farm everything was dark. I parked the quad bike to one side of the tanks and turned off the engine. I was heading towards the hut, the water in the tanks murmuring amongst the sounds of the forest, when I saw a silhouette step into the path. My heart skipped a beat.

Juancho was waiting for me, one hand resting on the concrete edge of the tank, the other folded across his body, grasping the strap of the rifle hanging over his shoulder.

Did I scare you? he asked.

Hardly. Did I scare you? I responded, with more bravura than logic.

I was just passing, he said.

Right.

It’s late, he said.

Yes, I replied.

And you’re still up.

I am.

I wanted to make sure… he added, but then seemed to have second thoughts about completing the sentence.

At that moment the clouds parted and for a second the clearing was lit up from above. I realised he was smiling.

I’m going to bed, Juancho.

Of course, he said, you must be tired.

His face gave nothing away as he said this.

We’ve got a lot of work to do, I said, and, sighing deeply as though burdened by other things, headed up to the hut.

Be careful, he said to my back, and if I didn’t slam the door it was only because I didn’t want to wake my family. I listened to his footsteps, lighter than usual, heading towards the forest.

*

In the morning my daughters went down to the village to check if their drunk of a schoolteacher had turned up that day. Meanwhile Ermiña was planting some watercress in the vegetable garden and I went to look for Juancho in the forest.

I found him up by the deep spring, standing motionless looking at the water. I stayed out of sight for a while behind a couple of big swiss cheese plants, thinking how easy it would be to give him a little shove. I stood there as long as five minutes, delighted by the idea, but then Juancho suddenly spoke, as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

You enjoying the shade back there?

I emerged from the greenery and stood beside him. There was something mesmerising about the deep spring water.

I wanted to talk to you, I said.

I figured as much, he responded, and then added: Can’t be easy, your situation.

Actually, it was your situation I wanted to talk about. It must be tough having them after you like this.

He wrinkled his nose and I realised I’d caught him off guard.

They’ve been asking about you in San Agustín.

Oh yeah?

His voice was a ghost of what it had been earlier.

’Fraid so, I told him.

Who was asking?

There were two of them, I told him. They spoke

to me.

I saw him swallow.

And what did they want?

Not much, just asking after you, how you’ve been.

And what did you tell them?

I crouched by the edge of the spring and put my

hand in the water. It really was freezing.

I asked them who they were.

Right, he said. And?

They said they were friends of yours.

Anything else?

Well, I had a bad feeling about them.

So…

So. I told them I didn’t know, that it was ages since I’d seen you.

Juancho slowly let his lungs empty.

Right, he said. That’s good.

You’ll know better than me, I told him. But…

But what?

Well, what I said before, that’s all. I had a bad feeling about them.

Juancho moved his head from side to side like he was trying to reconcile two conflicting thoughts, but before he could say anything I turned tail and headed back to the tanks.

All that night I remained wakeful, despite my modest triumph. I had to get up a few times and stand by the tanks, letting the sound of the water soothe me. From there I could see Juancho pass by every now and again as he did the rounds, watching over the farm

and making sure the water was still flowing through the pipes to the tanks.

He walked with his head lowered, as though a great weight was bearing down on the nape of his neck, and I felt a little bit sorry, but a lot more cheerful.

*

At one point, not long after the project started, the trout started dying. Every morning I’d wake up and find three or four little bodies floating on the surface of the tank. The rest were drifting around dopily – they wouldn’t even eat the dying ones. Don Henrik had to come up from the capital and spend a week here, sleeping in San Agustín every night only to come back up early the next morning. He spent long periods watching the trout, thoughtful, one finger on his lips.

They’re suffocating, he said on the fifth day.

As well as a specific temperature, trout need a lot of oxygen. In tanks they get through it quickly with all their swimming. That’s how they breathe, but it also tires them out. Fresh water needs to be coming in all the time, oxygenating the tank, and with so many trout there wasn’t enough. What’s the point in being modest? It was me who figured out how to solve the oxygen problem. I created a Venturi effect, according to Don Henrik, who knows about these things. All I did was fiddle about with some plastic tubes, inserting them halfway into the water to create vacuums. I managed to get them to suck air in from outside and bubble it through the water, and that way, from then on, we made sure they had enough oxygen.

You’re an empirical engineer, Don Henrik told me after my success. An engineer through and through.

Don Henrik’s compliments are almost as flattering as Analí’s.

*

But I was troubled to note that at night Ermiña too was tossing and turning in bed. Something was going on with her. On a trip down to the shop for pesticide for the vegetable garden, I took the opportunity to

have a quiet word with Analí.

It’s better if we don’t see each other here anymore. It’s nicer up at the fork in the road, or somewhere else, don’t you think?

Why? she asked.

What do you mean why?

Why?

I waited, motionless, my thumbs in my belt, looking at her without understanding. But Analí let out a laugh and started looking at her phone. I just stood there in front of the counter like an idiot. Some men came in to buy something and all there was left to do was go. She didn’t even say goodbye.

I sent her a couple of texts in the days that followed, but she didn’t reply. That week I completely lost it. At certain moments I felt an enormous relief, like suddenly I could breathe, and I was overcome with affection for Ermiña and my girls, swiftly followed by a horrible guilt. A minute later I’d be tearing my hair out with the sheer desire to see Analí. It was time to harvest the trout and the rains were getting heavier. I worked hard

through the downpour, pulling out one fish after

another, trying to drive away my desire. But that only made me think about her more, my own sweat reminding me of our nights together, and then I’d be hit by the smell of Pert Plus, followed by that scent behind her ears, just like a baby’s, and that in turn reminded me of her breath, her sweet-sour breath, discovering all her perfumes as though for the first time. But memories of smells disappear as quickly as they come, and it hit me how great a distance there was between my body and hers, and that made me so profoundly sad that I had to stop and lean against the edge of the tank.

As though she could hear my actual thoughts, that afternoon I received a message from her.

I want to do things to you in your bed :)

That sentence threw me into a total spin. I read it so many times that José came over to ask what I was looking at. Ermiña didn’t say anything, which should have put me on my guard, but in truth I was walking on air, barely able to hide my grin. Which bed was she talking about? The one in the hut? Do things… here? From one moment to the next everything around me was infused with Analí, her laugh tangled in the forest, her breath bubbling with the water, her body pressing insistently against mine. And Ermiña was right there, silent, making lunch, working in the vegetable garden, helping the girls with homework she’d devised herself.

My daughters went out earlier than usual the next morning. I was sharpening the machete to cut back the edges of the clearing when Ermiña came over. She had a big bag with her and was wearing makeup, which she never does up here.

They told me, she said.

I turned to look at her.

Told you what?

For God’s sake, she said. You’re pathetic.

Dizziness flooded through me, so much so that I had to crouch down. When I raised my eyes, Ermiña was looking down at me. She smiled, just a little, her lips very tight and her eyes sad, and made her way towards the path down the mountain. I thought about following her, saying something, shouting at her or pleading, but she was walking so upright, her skirt cupping her big buttocks so nicely, holding her bag so firmly, that I didn’t have the guts. I went cold all over and let myself fall onto my backside. A sharp whistling started up in my ears, and it was a few minutes before I could clear my head and get up again.

Oh fuck, I thought. Fuck fuck fuck.

*

I felt half-cut for the rest of the day, wandering from the tanks to the hut, from the hut to the edge of the forest, from the forest to the vegetable garden, and in the vegetable garden I stood looking at all the little plants Ermiña had grown in the last few months – chard, tomatoes, tufts of watercress – all so carefully tended. I went and got a bucket of water from the tanks, thinking I’d water any that looked like they needed it, but none of them did, and I noted the care she’d taken over every single plant, the furrows dug so neatly, the topsoil

well-turned, and then I just stood there, a long time, until my throat began closing and tears started to fall one after the other from my eyes. I don’t know how long I was there, thinking about my daughters, imagining Ermiña picking them up from school and telling them that they weren’t going back up the hill that afternoon, they were going all the way down to their grandmother’s

house. The rain intensified and soaked my hair, my face, my body.

Suddenly I found myself walking down the path that led away from the farm, walking faster and faster, tripping as I raced down, my rubber boots slipping, and with them this body, this body that wasn’t mine, a clumsy, borrowed body that was taking me to my wife whether I liked it or not. I managed to slow it down when I got to the village. I felt my way over to a rock we used to call The Bull because of its shape, and sat on the animal’s back. Little by little I began to calm down. Going after Ermiña was crazy, no matter how you looked at it, and the idea of seeing my aunt was just plain stupid. Once I’d figured that much out, I began to feel resentful.

They told me, Ermiña had said.

When I realised, rage began to pulse through my body and I knew that Juancho had given me away.

This is where it’s hard to find the words, because in that moment I hated Juancho, and myself, but also, why not say it, Ermiña too. What had she done? Or not done?

I was struggling to put my finger on it, but I was sure there was something crouching there, as present and solid as the stone I was sitting on.

As though possessed by the devil, I jumped down from The Bull and headed back uphill. As I climbed, it finally sank in that Ermiña wouldn’t be there, nor Tatinca, nor Ileana, nor Ilopanga, and definitely not José. Distress started to wash away my rage, replacing it with a grim coldness. When I arrived at the entrance to the farm I saw Juancho sitting by his little shack, his rifle hanging over his shoulder. The rain had abated and heavy clouds were rising over the mountainside, by turns hiding and illuminating the clearing, so that sometimes I could see Juancho’s hunched figure

and sometimes not. As I got closer I had the impression that I was approaching a very tired ghost.

You have to go, I said, now almost level with him.

He turned to look at me, slowly but not surprised.

What?

Go, I told him, now.

Why?

Swallowing saliva, I made an effort to keep my voice calm.

I saw those guys you know, down below. They’re on their way up.

Down below?

Not that far, I explained. They’d already reached

the village.

They spoke to you?

No, I said, thinking on my feet, they just saw me in the distance and starting talking amongst themselves. I’m telling you, they’re heading up here.

His hand reached for the pistol in his belt.

Now?

Now, I told him.

Juancho stood, and then stared intently at the spot where the path reaches the farm. He started looking around him, along the line where the clearing ends and the forest begins.

For sure?

For sure, Juancho, go.

He took out the pistol, loaded it, and ran into his shack. A minute later he was back with his rucksack.

He turned to look around him one more time with his big cow eyes and, without saying goodbye, ran off towards the path down the hill. Halfway there he stopped. He turned on the spot and ran back up, stumbling.

Take this, he said, pulling the rifle over his head as he approached. You might need it.

Why would I need it?

That’s how they are, he said. Be careful.

I almost felt alarmed. Seeing him like that, his hair a mess and his jaw clenched, I thought, for a second, about telling him the truth. But José’s little hands flashed through my mind again, waving goodbye, and the moment passed.

Go, I told him, go quickly.

He slipped across the farm towards the path, seemed to change his mind, then made for the edge of the clearing and disappeared into the forest.

I went into the hut and looked at the bed Ermiña had made up, the girls’ mattress leaning against the wooden boards of the wall so she could clean, the whole room dark and neat. I sat down on the edge of the bed, leant back, and seeing the metal roof suddenly heard my girls laughing outside, chasing the dog Baloo around the tanks. But the noise dissolved into the sound of trickling water, and then I felt like I was sinking into the mattress, as though I could fall right through it. I tried to think of something else, to shake off my longing, and remembered Analí’s message. I dug around in my trousers for my phone.

I want to do things to you…

My body responded. I want to do things to you… I read it again, maybe even said it out loud. I imagined her topless, naked, on me, just like I’d imagined her a thousand times. Clutching her own little breasts in her hands, lifting her gaze to the ceiling. I typed the message furiously, barely even looking at the screen.

Her reply arrived within a couple of minutes.

I’ll meet you above the village at six.

I was late going to get her and ran recklessly down the hill, my insides roiling with emotion. I found her by an enormous oak tree, just where the sweetgum plantation begins to turn into forest. At least my silence matched hers this time. We headed up to the farm.

I’m glad you’re alone, she said eventually, when we reached the clearing.

The forest had gone silent, as though the plants, the water, the animals and the birds had all quietened down in their own little corners, attentive to this new presence. Even Baloo had disappeared.

I didn’t reply. Her scent hit me and already that was almost too much. But being like that, on the verge of setting everything alight, lost for words, did me good.

I saw her cast an eye over the farm, curious, and above all satisfied. She went over to one of the tanks

and dipped a finger in the water.

It’s cold, she said, then put her finger in her mouth and sucked it.

That water tastes of fish, I know because I’ve done the same, but with the way she was looking at me it could have been the sacred fountain of our unbridled passion.

And this is your place? she asked, eyeing the hut.

It had started to rain again, and before I could answer she was already stepping lightly towards the door. She opened it and let herself in. I followed her and lit a candle on the night table. Heavy raindrops started to thunder on

the metal roof, gathering strength as Analí explored, walking around the bed to examine the flower design on the quilt, going over to the calendar featuring pictures of Swiss meadows that Don Henrik had put up on the wall, using her toes to toy with the mothballs Ermiña had put down in the corners. Then she turned to me and wrinkled her nose.

It smells… different, here, she said.

I didn’t like the way she said it, but she’d already crouched down to pick up a little rubber ball from under the bed.

Is this your daughter’s? she asked.

I said yes without knowing which one she meant.

She’s so little. I love her smile, she said, and I realised at once that she was talking about José, who’s got these white teeth that light the whole place up when she’s happy.

Analí sat down on the bed and looked up at me, rolling the little rubber ball between her hands.

You remember her then, I said.

I don’t have to remember her, I talk to her every day when she comes out of school.

Right. So – you know each other well then?

She didn’t answer, but neither did she look away. She let go of the little ball, which fell and rolled across the floor, and then she put one hand on her thigh.

But do you talk to her a lot? I pressed.

She tilted her head, made a face, and sighed before answering.