— Gringa, I say. This girl is hungry. And so am I. What did you bring us?
— Dogshit, she says.
— I know that, I say. But how’d you make it? Milanesa? Stewed? How?
— You’re a crook, she says. Stealing from the union.
That’s what she wants. It’s obvious that’s what she wants.
— Alright, Gringa, easy, I say. Tell us what kind of dogshit we have for lunch.
— Stealing from the union, she says.
— Mo-li-no ha-ri-ne-ro ese ah, says the girl.
I take a long drink from the gin. I close my eyes. I fill my mouth up with the gin and then let it fall into my stomach. It burns, going down. Meanwhile I screw on the lid. Then I put the gin on the ground, near the shotgun.
— Gringa, I say.
— What, she says.
— Don’t mention the union again, or I’ll get angry. Don’t make me angry. Aren’t we having a good time? We’re spending a day in the country, the whole family, it’s nice. Isn’t it nice? Behave yourself and get down from the truck because it’s time to eat.
— There’s milanesas and cheese and a bunch of stuff, she says.
I hear her moving around inside the cab and then get out, on the other side. She passes in front of me and reaches over the planks of the rails. She takes out the canvas bag and sits down on the running board. The girl sits down on the ground, in front of us.
— Careful with the shotgun, I say.
I pick up the shotgun and prop it between my legs. She takes out two or three packages from the canvas bag and leaves them on the ground. Then she takes out a bottle of wine.
— I forgot the corkscrew, she says.
She spreads a cloth over the ground and starts opening the cloth bundle on it. There’s cold milanesas, cheese, salami, and half a dozen hardboiled eggs. There’s also the three loaves that I wrapped up in the kitchen.
I hit the bottom of the wine bottle against the ground until the cork pops out. A stream of wine follows it and splatters us. We all laugh.
— Good times, I say.
We eat, and drink the bottle of wine.
— Let’s go back, she says.
— Now? I say. I want to try for another duck first.
— It’s going to rain, she says.
— Stop with that rain, because it’s not going to rain at all, I say.
— I want to go out in the canoe, Papi, says the girl.
— Shut your mouth, I say.
— Last night I dreamt that you were going to shoot that duck, says the girl. I dreamt that Mami and I were waiting here in the truck and that you walked to the lake and there were three shots and then you came back with the duck. I dreamt all of it.
I softly punch the door of the truck.
— Powerful machine, I say.
— If you’re going to shoot that duck then get going, she says. I’ll go crazy if I stay here another hour.
— You were crazy before we got here, I say. Before you were born.
— Alright, she says. Get going.
— Do you remember, Gringa, that time we went to Buenos Aires on May first? I say. There were a million workers there, at least.
— At least that many, she says.
I stand up. Maybe I’ll get another duck, I say.
I pick up the shotgun and point the barrels at her.
— Should I pull the trigger? I say.
— Cut it out, don’t be stupid, she says.
I point the barrels away.
— If you shut up and keep quiet, you can come with me, I say.
— Yeah, she says. And who’s going to watch our things?
— No one comes out here, I say.
— Are we going out in the canoe, Papi? says the girl.
She shrugs. Fine, let’s go, she says.
We start walking through the meadow, coming around, and after we’ve walked a couple of hundred meters, the truck has disappeared, blocked by the hill of eucalyptus.
I walk ahead. She and the girl follow. I can hear the grass snapping under our shoes. Sometimes it comes up no higher than my knees, and sometimes our feet sink into puddles that appear suddenly, hidden by the underbrush.
— This is bullshit, she says, behind me.
— The less you talk, the better, I say, not stopping or looking back.
— I’ll talk as much as I like, she says.
When I stop and turn around, the barrels are pointing at her. I point them down, at the ground.
— I said that if you came with me you would have to be quiet, I say.
La Gringa makes a face, but doesn’t say a thing.
We reach the edge of the lake, without flushing a single duck. She and the girl are staring at the city, their mouths open.
— That’s the Guadalupe cathedral over there, she says.
— And the suspension bridge, says the girl.
We walk along the shore. They’re going ahead now. Suddenly they stop, looking toward the city again. Their backs are to me, some five meters away. The barrels are pointing at them. I’m transfixed for a moment, staring at them. Nothing happens. There’s the lake, glowing, and the city beyond, and closer to me their silhouettes, sharply contrasted against the vast open sky. I ask myself if there’s anything that could erase them. But even if they were erased, they would still be there, always. There’s nothing for it. They’ll always be there. But I can’t lower the barrels. They’re standing there, apart, against the vast open sky. Their outlines glow, sharply. They’re still.
I crouch, setting the breech on the ground and resting my cheek against the cold barrel. Then she turns around and looks at me.
— What are you staring at like an idiot? she says.
— Nothing, I say.
— There’s no canoe out here, says the girl.
— Later, after this, I say, standing up.
They walk toward me, away from the lake. The girl stoops and picks up a snail from a strip of damp, reddish ground at the edge of the water, where our tracks appear.
Then she stoops and picks up another snail, then she runs a few meters away and picks up another. I see her running, sharply, leaving a trail of small impressions on the reddish strip and then bending toward the ground as though she’s been hit by something, straightening up again and running again, moving farther off and then returning quickly toward us, growing in size, with the three snails in her hand. She hits the girl’s hand and the snails fly out and fall back to the strip of reddish earth.
— Leave that mess alone and don’t get yourself dirty, she says.
— She’s not hurting anyone, picking up snails, I say.
— You’re not the one who’s going to be washing all her clothes, later, are you? she says.
I bend over and pick up the snails and give them back to the girl, who puts her hands together and receives them in the cup formed by her two palms.
— If you don’t take me out in the canoe like you promised, I’m not letting them go and I’m getting everything dirty, she says.
— Why don’t we just give her whatever wants? she says.
— If she picks up three snails nothing’s going to happen and no one’s going to die, I say.
She turns around and looks toward the city.
— Aren’t those the warehouses at the train station? she says.
— Yes, I say. Those are the warehouses. And over there behind them are the grain elevators in the harbor.
— And isn’t that the city offices? she says.
She points to a blurry, white mass rising above the cluster of buildings and foliage.
— I’m not sure, I say.
— Alright, she says. Are we going back or are we staying out here for the rest of the year?
— Let’s stay, Papi, says the girl. For the rest of the year.
— Alright, I say. We’ll stay out here for the rest of the year.
— That’s great, I say. For the rest of the year.