Читать книгу The Wind That Lays Waste - Selva Almada - Страница 7

Tapioca came back with a bottle of Coke for Leni and a glass of water for the Reverend. He handed them the drinks and stood there like an over-attentive waiter.

Pearson drank the whole glass down in one gulp. In spite of its warmth and dubious colour, the Reverend received that water as if it had flowed from the purest spring. If God put it on earth, it must be good, he always said.

He gave the empty glass back to the mechanic’s assistant, who gripped it with both hands, unsure what to do with it. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Do you go to church, son?’ asked the Reverend.

Tapioca shook his head and looked down, ashamed.

‘But you’re a Christian.’

The boy stopped shifting his weight and stood there staring at the tips of his sandals.

There was a gleam in the Reverend’s eyes. He got up, walked over to Tapioca, and stood in front of him. He bent down a little, trying to see the boy’s face.

‘Are you baptised?’

Tapioca looked up and the Reverend saw himself reflected in his large, dark eyes, which were moist like the eyes of a fawn. A flicker of curiosity made the boy’s pupils contract.

‘Tapioca,’ Brauer called out. ‘Here. I need you here.’

The boy gave the glass back to the Reverend and ran over to his boss. Pearson raised the greasy vessel and smiled. His mission on earth was to wash dirty souls, to make them sparkling clean again, and fill them with the word of God.

‘Leave him alone,’ said Leni, who had been watching the scene with interest as she sipped her Coke.

‘God puts us exactly where we ought to be, Elena.’

‘We ought to be at Pastor Zack’s place, Father.’

‘And we will be, after.’

‘After what?’

Her father didn’t answer. And she didn’t insist; she didn’t want to get into a quarrel or know anything about his mysterious plans.

She watched as Brauer gave Tapioca some orders and the boy climbed up into the cabin of an old truck. He steered while the Gringo strained to push the vehicle to a tree about two hundred yards away, where he left it in the shade.

When the truck was where he wanted it, he collapsed onto the bare earth with his arms flung out and his mouth hanging open, gulping hot air into his lungs. The way his heart was beating in his chest, it felt like a cat in a bag. He looked up at the fragments of sky visible through the sparse canopy of leaves.

Once, Brauer had been a very strong man. At the age of twenty, he would put a chain over his bare shoulders and tow a tractor, easily, just to amuse his friends.

Now he was three decades older, a mere shadow of the young Hercules who used to enjoy displaying his phenomenal strength.

Tapioca bent down over him.

‘Hey, boss. You okay?’

Brauer lifted an arm to reassure the kid, but still couldn’t say a word; he could barely gather enough strength to smile and give him a thumbs-up.

Tapioca laughed with relief and ran back to the service station to get some water.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Gringo saw his helper’s sandals raising dust, the boy running knock-kneed, awkwardly, as if he were still a child, not almost a man.

He looked up again at the sky, broken into pieces by the tree. His shirt was soaked, and he could feel the sweat gathering in his navel, then overflowing and running down either side of his belly. Little by little his breathing slowed, and his heart stopped jumping around in his rib cage, returning to its normal place within the frame of bones. His body was seized by the first spasm of a cough, which made him sit up suddenly and filled his mouth with phlegm. He spat it all out, as far as he could. Then he felt for a cigarette and lit it.