She points, stretching her hand out until it touches the windshield. The girl leans out over her knees to look. Slowing down, I do something similar. To the north, a group of black dots moves slowly into the distance against the gray sky, flapping, forming an angle, with the leader at the vertex. I say flapping but I don’t see any flapping. All I see is the angle of black dots, moving, and the empty sky.
— It’s going to rain any minute, she says.
— It’s not going to rain, I say.
I’m still leaning forward, and I look up at the flock again. High up, the angle of black dots, now slightly more open, with the leader at the front, moves to the north, in the vast empty sky.
We pass the checkpoint, where the road divides. The white line follows the curve of the road toward the water and separates from us. Now the truck is traveling along a straight strip of smooth, blue road, without a white line. We drive at least two kilometers past leafless trees and burnt fields. Then, at a squat motel building, we turn off. We leave the asphalt, and the truck jumps when it crosses the border that separates the asphalt from the wide, sandy plot in front of the motel. We pass alongside a cluster of bitterwoods with yellow leaves, onto a path of white sand packed down by the rain. At first there are houses on both sides of the path, obscured by the foliage, but soon there’s only the path that narrows as it penetrates the countryside. Sometimes clusters of plants jump out in front of the truck and the path slips away with a sharp curve. Suddenly a gate stops us. I get out of the truck, unhook the gate, and open it. I cross the opening, stop again, get out again, close the gate, and get back in, continuing on. Ahead there’s nothing but empty country, and at the end a large hill covered with eucalyptus. We drive along the path, with vast spaces of open country on both sides of us. The truck’s progress is labored and lurching. Finally we stop at the base of the hill, on the near side as we approached. Beyond the hill is a broad meadow, beyond that the lake — which isn’t visible — and beyond the lake, and higher up, the city. The columns of the suspension bridge are visible to the left, and to the right the towers of the Guadalupe cathedral. The gray sky is limpid, but tense. We get out.
She walks around briefly, close to the truck, and then takes some comic books from the cab. She sits down on the running board and starts flipping through them. I strap the cartridges to my belt and grab the shotgun from the truck.
— Papi, says the girl. When are we going in the canoe?
— Later, I say, and walk away.
I start moving across the meadow, where there’s no path. The grasses snap under my shoes. Every so often I step in a puddle and sink into it. I stop and turn around, seeing the truck a short distance away. She’s sitting on the running board, reading, and the girl has climbed onto the roof, looking in my direction; she makes a gesture with her hand. I turn around and keep walking.
I turn to the right, still moving toward the lake, and when I’ve walked a short distance more the truck disappears behind the hill of eucalyptus. I walk a little farther and then I stop, and am still.
I crouch. I prop the breech of the shotgun on the ground and rest the cold, blue metal barrel against my cheek. Through the grasses that here and there obscure my view, like a fog, I look at the city. Two columns of black smoke rise to the left, where the smoke stacks of the train station are vaguely visible. The smoke looks motionless, fixed, the upper border of the columns wider and thinner than at the bottom. In the other direction are the towers of the Guadalupe cathedral, and a tiny cottage, that can be sensed more than seen, projects through the foliage at the water’s edge. Then, for a moment, I don’t see anything else. I look without seeing. I don’t know how much time passes. I’m crouching, with the shotgun between my legs, my cheek resting on the cold barrel, looking without seeing. When I straighten up, my legs are cramped.
I load the shotgun and then start moving slowly, half-crouched, toward the lake. It’s visible now, about three hundred meters ahead. Suddenly, at eye level, about ten meters away, something takes off from the meadow. It flaps and picks up altitude. I aim, slowly following the flight of the duck with the sight on the shotgun. I raise my gaze and it gains altitude. Then I shift the sight just ahead of the duck’s body and pull the trigger. The blast, pregnant with the smell of gunpowder, makes a small cloud of smoke and presses the breech softly against my shoulder, but the duck keeps flying. I aim again, moving the sight just ahead of the duck’s body, and pull the trigger. I miss again. A trail of smoke rises from the barrel of the shotgun, and when I touch the barrel it feels hot. The gunpowder smell lingers. I unload the empty rounds and stick them in the cartridge belt. The golden bases of the cartridges wrap around my waist, extending evenly, identically, from the loops. The two that I’ve put back into the empty loops, discharged, are covered with stains and the primer is flattened. I take out two intact rounds, leaving the loops empty, and load the shotgun. Then I latch the shotgun and start walking again toward the lake.
The duck has disappeared into the gray sky, away from the city and toward the hill of eucalyptus. I continue toward the lake. I listen to the snapping grasses that I crush with my muddy shoes. I straighten up and turn around. The hill of eucalyptus is smaller now, and all I see is the green mass of leaves — a strip of green foliage more transparent at the upper edge. I keep going toward the lake.
I walk more than an hour. More. Every so often I crouch, setting the breech of the shotgun on the ground and touching the barrel to my cheek, and I look without seeing. I stare at some bare spot on the ground, where the grass is thin, and I look at the yellow leaves of the grass without seeing them. Sometimes my eyes stop on one blade, whose edges are withered and discolored by the frostbite, more withered the more they are exposed to the destructive air. I’ve been approaching and moving away from the edge of the lake, without ever reaching it. Finally I arrive, to where the water almost touches my feet. From there the city is like an arm’s length away, and the hill of eucalyptus is hidden. The water is smooth, gray.
I turn my head abruptly toward a duck that is taking off among the grasses, away from the lake. I take aim and follow it quickly with the sight, leading its body a shade, and pull the trigger. It shudders, convulses, flaps, and its flight stops suddenly, as though it collided with an invisible wall in the empty space. It falls straight to the ground, some fifteen meters from where I’m standing. When I get there, brushing aside the grasses, it’s still twitching, and it flaps two or three more times. Then it stretches out a leg and is still. I’ve hit it in the nape, and blood is splattered across its blue neck feathers. I pick it up by the legs and take it away.
Now I walk with my back to the city and the lake, toward the hill of eucalyptus. I have to walk a long way and then turn gradually to the right before I see the truck. Finally it reappears, behind the hill. When I’m close, I see her sitting in the cab, and the girl is coming to meet me. She grabs the duck.
— Is it dead? she says.
— Completely, I say.
I sit down on the running board with the shotgun at my feet.
— Hand me the gin, I say.
I speak in a loud voice, with my back to the cab, looking out toward the city.
A moment later I feel the bottle hitting me softly on the head. From what’s left in the bottle, I can tell she’s been drinking.
— Don’t make me carry you out of here later, I say.
— I’m hungry, says the girl.
She drops the duck into the truck bed, pushing it through the wooden stakes. Then she starts spelling out the words on the sign that is hanging from the stakes.
— Mo-li-no ha-ri-ne-ro ese ah, she says.