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  × × × × × × We headed for the abandoned salt mine in the middle of the afternoon, at the head of a huge convoy × × × × × × In the distance we saw the sun reflecting off cars at a standstill in the road × × × When we reached them we stopped × Jesulé swore loudly × He walked back to the rest of the convoy, which had parked alongside the highway, and argued with everyone × × × When after a while he returned I didn’t know if he was more angry with me or with his paisas. He promised me: We’ll get you to your old man, kid, don’t you worry × × × With a jerk of the gearshift he headed into the pampa, parallel to the line of stationary cars: we sliced through the hawthorn and sent rocks flying. Didn’t stop till we got there × × × A couple of pickups from the convoy followed behind × × × × × × × The salt mine was full of people × × Full × I asked him to wait for me a while × He said that wasn’t the deal, they were all rushing to get to the Bolivian border before dark × I ignored him and ran off to look for my papá, leaving everything in the pickup × ×

  × × Jesulé’s cousins smoked and stretched their legs × × × × × ×

  I searched every face but there was no sign of my old man × Everyone was decked out like they were heading to mass × × × × That is: they were dancing on the dirt roads, the men looking sharp, the women in dresses, like a parody of what the guru had tried to capture in his film × There was a pickup on every corner, all of them playing the same kind of music rescued from scratched vinyl, and people were going crazy: flicking their wrists, swinging their necks and calves to the sound of the Charleston × × × Laughter × × × Bending their legs and arms like puppets.

  × × × × × × × × Dizzy from the sun, brushed off by everyone I spoke to, I told myself: I’m not leaving here alive without him. And it wasn’t till I was breathless, agitated, thinking about going back, that I saw a dog come out of the door to a warehouse × × × × I went in and there he was × Lying on a cot with a cigarette in his mouth, staring at the sky through the roof beams × × × × × × × × He barely registered my hello × Papá, I said, I’ve come to see you × × × × × × × × × × × × Met with silence, I tried again, and again: Papá, I’ve come to see you × × × × × × But he didn’t answer × × × Didn’t even bother to look at me × × × Nothing

  × × × × × × I left the thermos of coffee and the sandwiches on the floor × × × Don’t you trouble yourself, sir, I yelled: Sure, there’s an infernal dance going on in the graveyard out there but the only one holy water can’t save is you × × × ×

  I thought about giving up on the whole damn thing, but as I left the warehouse my muscles started swelling, and I barely managed to reach a cheerful old couple walking by, dressed to the nines, before collapsing onto them × They peered into my face, their mouths moving. They looked like they were made of wa× × × × I sat down for a while in the shade and watched how people continued to wander, despite the sun going down and the buses no longer playing music, stretching their legs, laughing, taking down their umbrellas and parasols, running their fingers around their hats, dusting off their dresses with open palms × × Jesulé appeared around the corner and gave me a questioning look × I can’t leave yet, I told him × He spat and made a squeaking noise with his teeth × × I gotta do a second run, he said: Gimme a week and I’ll come get you, same spot × Before he left he brought my backpack and a couple of blankets from the truck × × × To sleep in, so you don’t get soaked, paisa × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

  I took advantage of the residual daylight to go to the cemetery of crosses, where we’d dug up my grandfather × × The tips of the hills were flaming pink. Below, a line sliced the pampa in two, plowing through the crosses to the warehouse’s adobe walls × × × × × × The same line bisected me diagonally: top half salmon pink, bottom half dark blue ×× ×× ××× Some dogs were sleeping up against one of the walls × × Then the crosses appeared × All those crosses × × × × × × × And in the distance rusty machinery × × Fossils of the future × × × × × × × × × × × × In front of my grandfather’s cross the grave was covered over as we’d left it × × Next to it was a new cross, made of young wood × × × Leaning on top of a little mound of fresh earth × × × × The inscription on the wood said:

  × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

  Patricio Moisés Cortés Araya Son, brother, and friend 1997 – 2016

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  My heart stopped and I sat down for a moment × ×

  × Papá santo had found him × × ×

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  I stuck my head inside the tin door and there he was, just as I’d left him: illuminated by a gas lamp, staring at the ceiling, at the beams, at the huge shadows cast by insects on the walls × × × × × × × × × × × I picked up the sandwiches and the thermos of coffee and sat down on the edge of the bed × × × × × × × How long’s it been since you ate? I asked him as I split one of the rolls in two. I left half of it on his belly, which rose and fell gently × × × Papá santo looked at me, his face contorted, sucking in his cheeks × × × × × I tried to wash down the turkey mayo with a gulp of coffee but between my tongue and my belly button there was nothing but anxiety × × × × × I cleared my throat and went for it:

  And how long’s it been since you found Pato? × × × × × × × Papá santo looked at me like I’d twisted his soul and replied, roughly:

  I told you that good-for-nothing’s beyond saving, what are you talking about, Nancy ×

  × × I pressed him: I asked how long it’s been since you found him, not since you saved him ×

  × All I found was a hand, he said × × × × × × That and the leather jacket he had on that day. You wanna know where?

  The hand in the dump at San Fermín, but it was the cops who left it there, probably wasn’t even Pato’s × × × Only found out ’cause a bunch of mutants did me a favor × ×

  × The jacket in Playa Verde, where that river of shit from San Fermín empties out into the sea × × × × × × × × ×

  × And the rest of him? × ×

  × × Fuck the rest of him × × Who knows what he was mixed up in, or why he ended up there × × × × × × × × × The hand was black, hard × × × × × × × × × The jacket looked like it was about to grow legs and run off × ×

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  Isidora loves this story × × × × × × × Whenever we don’t have much to talk about she’ll ask me to tell it again: How was it they found Pato, Nancy? × They never found him, I reply × × × × × × × × × Only that hand and the jacket × × × Though if you ask me, I reckon, and so does papá santo, that hand could have been anyone’s × × × And the jacket too × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

  × × × × This is what my papá said, I tell the fat woman then:

  × × This cop came to see me on the film set to tell me they’d pretty much figured out Pato’s whereabouts × He’s alive then, I replied, but he looked at me strangely and said no, he’d tell me on the way × But we got all the way to San Fermín without him opening his mouth × × × × × ×

  × × Outside the city, at the municipal landfill, there were two forensics trucks × × × × × × × × × We walked across a mound of debris and trash to a remote area cordoned off with security tape × Surrounding the place were thin, gray kids, some of their stomachs swollen, belly buttons popping × × × There were TV reporters there too, and a bunch of fat neighbors wearing slippers, smoking and talking ×× × × Black clouds to the north × × × Black clouds to the south

  × × × × × The two coal plants operating perfectly × × × × ×

  × I was greeted by four cops, slick and serious, hiding behind dark glasses × × × Deputy Chief Calderón, that’s what the one who came to get me was called, cleared his throat and said: ’Fraid I’ve not been completely straight with you, Pastor × × × The investigation’s come a long way but we’ve only found a hand and a jacket × We’ll need you to identify them × × × × × × × He indicated a forensics van and I went in × On the table was what I thought was a monkey’s hand × × × Black and wrinkled × × × × No thumb × × × × Next to it was an open jar. It smelled like a morgue × × × × I managed to say, just to placate everyone: Yes, it’s Pato’s × And I tried to cry. I mean: I cried, but I didn’t really want to × × × × That little piece of meat could have belonged to anything × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × But I wanted some peace, and for them to leave me be × × × × I had a moment alone in the fenced-off area and took the opportunity to sit down for a smoke × × × A couple of kids whistled at me from the other side of the barrier × × × × × They had hard black eyes, like the monkey hand × × × I don’t have any money, I told them, and this is my last cigarette: shove off, won’t you × × The tallest one smiled, his maw empty except for two sharp eyeteeth. Don’t let ‘em fool you, sir × ×

  × Pato’s alive × × × × × × × × × He’s living near here × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

  I asked them where but they rubbed their fingers in my face × × For ten lucas they’d even bring me Pato’s real hand × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × I gave them the money and they came back within five minutes with a shoe box × × You’ll keep this quiet, Pastor, they told me. We don’t want any trouble from the fuzz × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × So where’s Pato then? I asked them. And why’s he missing a hand? Where the fuck did you brats even get this? × × × × × × × × × × × There were five or six of them × They looked at each other, trying not to laugh × × × × × Just then the Deputy Chief Calderón blew a whistle: I saw him signaling that it was time to go. When I looked back the kids had scattered, running over the landfill site × × × × × × × × × It was probably just some lie to get money out of me × × × I grabbed the box, not daring to look inside × × Calderón didn’t ask me anything, either about the box or the kids. He seemed very respectful of the pain in my face, and so we kept quiet, listening to the radio, until he took a detour toward the coast × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × Where are you taking me now? I asked ×

  × × To the other place, where the jacket is × × × × × × × Forty-five minutes later we were on the fetid blue sand of Playa Verde × × × A couple of forensics trucks were parked by the cordoned-off area × × × × × × × The wind gusted strongly × × × × I walked blindly, my head half-buried in my jacket, lips pressed shut so the whirls of black, green, and gold pyrite dust wouldn’t get in my mouth × × × × × × × × × In the distance, the cops were waiting by the canal × × The beach was a mess, strewn with trash as though it was winter and the sea had vomited × × × Tree trunks, bottles, plastic buoys, and nets × × × × All polished patiently by the waves, hija × × × × × × × × × × × × Time’s relentless in that sense, Nancy, papá santo had said to me: That farmhand, your tío Aarón’s friend, Juan García, he was a sinner same as Pato × × The two of them sentenced to be polished by the water, shredded by the current × × × × × × × × × × × × × Maybe that jacket, the only thing left of him, maybe it was a way of confirming his disappearance from this world × × × × His dissolution × × × × × × × × × Because I did recognize the jacket with the cops that afternoon: it wasn’t Pato’s but he was wearing one just like it that day × × × Don’t you remember? × × × One of the detectives held it up with a stick. Legs splayed, one on either side of the canal × × × × × The jacket had gotten caught up against a pile of trash and was obstructing the flow × × × × × × × × × × × Yes, it’s his, I told them × × × Then I turned around and went to lock myself in the car and smoke × × ×

  When Calderón was about to take the turnoff toward the film set I asked him to leave me in Fray Santiago instead × × × × × × × × × What do you want to go there for, Pastor? × × × × × × × × × × × I’m going to spend some time with my old man × × × × × × × × He dropped me off here × × × I gave him the keys to the truck and asked him if he could send someone to pick it up and park it outside the house back in Ch × × × × × Asked if they could let you know × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × It was getting dark by the time the car disappeared down the road toward the Panamerican Highway × × × I dug a hole next to my old man’s grave, sat on the ground, and opened the box × × × × Inside was a fucked-up pigeon, almost flesh-less: just a smash of feathers × × × × I buried it anyway × × × The next day I found some sticks inside the old warehouse and made Patito a cross × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × Better we let him rest in peace, hija, and give ourselves some peace as well × × × You have to believe it’s possible, even if just for a little each day      × × ×

  × × By the time I got to that part of the story Isidora would already have her head in my lap, her lips pressed together × × × × And when my papá told me and got to that part, I was lying beside him, looking at all the white, prickly hairs on his neck and chin, shivering like a field of cactuses × × × × × × × × × × And we fell asleep, me in the old warehouse, Isidora on the bed in this house in the big port × × × × × × Papá santo was left, eyes open, staring at me.

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  × × × × × × We spent a few quiet days together, talking as little as possible × × × × × × × × × × × In the mornings and when the sun was setting we’d go out walking × × × × × × × × The rest of the day we stayed in the warehouse × × × Me thinking or doing the puzzles in the newspapers I’d found × × × Papá reading the New Testament or looking around vaguely, stroking the dogs × × × × × ×

  On the second to last day papá appeared in the warehouse carrying two buckets and said: Come with me to water the plants × × × × × We went to the pump and I leaned my whole body weight on the handle, seesawing × × × × After a while a clear stream emerged × × × The dogs jumped around excitedly, passing underneath the stream of water with their mouths open × × As for papá desierto, my desolate father, I think that might be the happiest I ever saw him × × × × He rested a hand on my shoulder and on his face there formed a smile × × × × × × × I felt his palm resting on me and it was as though I was carrying him in my arms × × × × × ×

  We walked beyond the crosses, behind the rusty machinery × × × × × × Planks of wood marked out an area where some sun-golden bushes were struggling to stay upright × × × × ×

      Nothing grows here, he said × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

  Everything burns from sheer abundance

  ××××× So much salt ×××××

  When we finished watering we sat there, watching the sun disappear × × × × When the sky went black, that moonless day, the plants began to glimmer, some of them blue, others red × × × × A couple of them green × × × × × × I looked at papá and saw him smile again × × × × I fell asleep with the plants reflecting against my eyelids, as if closing my eyes made the whole universe appear in front of me. Everything that’s visible and everything that’s not × × × × × × × × I woke up in the warehouse × × × That sunset × The phosphorescent bushes, my father’s smile, the whole day × I never knew if I actually lived them, or invented them, or dreamed them, or a bit of all three

  × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × I do remember, definitely, falling asleep again and dreaming × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×that I was sinking × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × into the crook of his arm × × × × × × × × × passing through the mattress × × × × × × × × × × × on and on × × × × × × × × × × × × × face down × × × × × × × × × × × × through the earth × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × the pores in the saltpeter × × × × × × × × × × between × × × × × × × × × × × × fossilized × × × × roots × × × × × × × × × × × × bodies curled up inside blankets × × × × × × × × × × × bones × × × × × × × × × × × × of mylodons × × × in which × × × × × × × × treasures were blossoming × × × × × ×jungles of quartz and Spanish glass × × × × × × × as though the earth× × × × × × × × × × × × × × was slowly× × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×letting me × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × in × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

 

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