How had it come to end up here? It seemed, from how it lay, that its intention was to sail into the Chaná from the Bajo del Temor. It’s possible to do this, but it’s risky. In this case, from the Sueco, you have to head for Punta Morán as you go round Isla Nutria, and then veer hard towards the north, lining up the stern with the island’s eastern shoreline. The entry to the Chaná is marked by an extensive poplar plantation. It’s all very shallow here, even though the shoreline scarcely rises into view, so you have go ahead with the engine speed reduced, and taking constant soundings. This seemed to be the route the boat had taken, but it had changed course at the last, and had fallen on the sandbanks. It was really odd to see it there, not wholly in the water nor completely on the land, but more than anything else, it was very sad.
There was also something else, the thing that really startled him. It wasn’t just the fact that the boat had ended up there. Instead, a premonition or suspicion, or whatever — something more than just the fact — struck him when he saw it first, in that very moment, implausibly unfolding from the misty line of coast. He wasn’t a man to see things that weren’t really there before him. But he’d been going round alone too long.
The lake ducks had now moved on almost right up to the Inca. The water had displaced him and he found his boat was sailing on the shoals off Punta Morán, but things seemed calm for now. He heard the diesel engine of a launch of the Isleña firm, running at full throttle as it cruised into the Sueco. The noises from the islands had now come round to the bow, and also sounded close. He’d reach the Sueco soon enough.
He still looked at the boat as he was taking up the oars. Then he set off strongly, not hurrying, but rowing deeply, using all his body.
The water turned before he reached the Sueco. Now it ran down powerfully. His progress was laborious, close in to the reed beds to avoid the strongest current.
He started with his fishing once he reached the Sueco inlet, with the morning well advanced. At this hour of the day and with the skies completely clear, he could see the unlit buoy K50 off to the south-west, on the far side of the Paraná, sited on the limit of the Isla Nueva sandbank. Away and to the south-east, but a long way further off and looking filmy in the distance, was the tip of Isla Zárate. He took the float and threw it in, a little bit to his side of the middle of the current, and then began to row across towards the other shore, taking care to keep the yellow tin and boat aligned. The trammel went in smoothly. He’d run a fair way downstream by the time he reached the reeds that lined the far bank of the river. The boat and yellow tin, each one on its margin, were running near in line as the current took them on. The boat kept just ahead, because the Sueco draws a measured curve, turning to the north-east and dictating that you sail a little ahead around the west. The net fell in a gentle sag between the tin and boat. There was nothing at the surface but the corks along the head rope, plucking at the water in between the boat and tin.
The tip of Zárate and the black buoy quickly disappeared, and then a little later he could only see the entrance to the Sueco, where he’d started, as if the water ended there. When you’re travelling on the water, the riverbanks go by in a strange kind of way, and the elements themselves, which seem disposed to change their nature, keep the scene in constant movement. He was only on the Sueco, which isn’t very long, and even so he had the feeling that he’d crossed through several quite distinctive places.
Now he began to see some silver arrows leap the head rope.
He sailed on past the channel that runs out between the islands, looking at its inlet from the middle of the Sueco, and remembering the night he’d spent there, coming from its far end at the onset of the summer. He couldn’t see the hut from here. He gathered in the net just a little further on. He hadn’t reached the end yet, but he judged it far enough. By the time the work was done he found he’d drifted there in any case, to where the land on either side runs out. The silverside were small but at least they were abundant, and he’d caught a few sardines as well. He preferred to eat sardines. To him they tasted better.
He couldn’t see the sandbank. He went back up again, but this time threw the trammel in when not as far upriver. By the time he pulled it in he’d come into the Bajo, and could see the boat.
He cast the net just twice in the passage of the morning, but with pretty good results. Then he beached his little boat on the shores of Punta Temor, and ate a little cold fish with the bread. He lit the Primus stove and drank some matés. All the time he did this he was looking at the other boat. It was difficult to see, not just because of distance, but because the sky was cloudy now, and when the sunlight reached the shore, its shine was just too bright.
The sky was overcast as he prepared the net that afternoon. The place looked bleak indeed now. The silence thickened round the boat as soon as he stopped rowing, and then his ears began to hum. He could feel the water level falling, and this falling, over time, possessed a tension that disturbed him.
He made some handsome catches, but even this, in some way, only fed his darkening mood. He’d allowed himself to stay too long and now had no idea what he would do with all he’d caught. As the time came near, he made a trip up to the Chanacito, hoping that he’d come across the provisions boat. Now he came to see that he’d invested too much hope in this. The conversation hadn’t been clear, nothing that the man had said confirmed a real interest. In any case, he wasn’t there, not this time or the next. The Flecha de Plata was another possibility, but meeting up with her in these parts was still less likely. Finally, and running out of time, he tried to speak to old man Polestrina, something that seems pretty daft in principle. He was as stingy as they come. He went round on an old barge, the Rosita de Polestrina, twelve metres long and as ruined as the man himself, but there was nothing lost by trying, however mean he was. He started out one morning for the Piccardo Canal, hoping that he’d meet with the supply launch on the way, or else when he was coming back, and he discussed things with the old man. Neither yes nor no. More likely no, however. Nothing he could count on.
‘I don’t see how it suits me,’ the old man had said.
‘By giving it a try,’ he’d said.
‘I don’t think it suits me.’
He was known to be a sly one and you couldn’t guess his thinking. He didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in the matter, but this could mean the opposite. They finished up agreeing that he’d take just one day’s catch, so he’d have a base to work from. They could talk about it then, if he had a real interest.
‘I don’t know what to think of this,’ the old man had said. He was sitting on the deck of the Rosita de Polestrina. ‘Bring me what you get and we’ll see what we can do. What’s the use of talking now?’
Perhaps the fish would bring him round, when he saw how much there was. But even if it did, he’d have to see what terms he wanted, albeit any deal at all would suit him at the moment. The way that things were looking now. If he had to face the worst, he’d take some to the store on the Piccardo Canal and try to sell it there, even to exchange it, getting other things for fish, and try to sell to Polestrina too, at least a little. Then he’d get fed up with eating silverside himself, the little fellow and dog as well, if he still had them with him. And then it wouldn’t surprise him if he lost this batch of fish. If this was how it turned out he’d spend the next days seeking buyers, or a dealer who would sell it. Until he’d got that sorted out, he couldn’t fish again.