Summer seemed a long way off.
They entered deepest winter. Like crossing through a long and lonely valley plunged in shadow.
The flat grey days went on and on.
As June approached its end they had a week of warmer weather. He knew this season well, the little summer of San Martín, some call it, others, of San Juan.
It was a hot and sticky heat and thick with dangers. But the colour of the light remained. They looked out every evening on the trees along the other shore, and saw this ageing colour. They couldn’t let this little summer fool them.
There were also very cold days in this same month of June.
He didn’t hope for much from winter. Things had happened early on, but now the world was shrinking to a long and drawn-out languor.
July was long and cruel. July killed off all hopes. A sullen irritation gripped them. The river and the sky were one, a grey and muddy wall. The islands, drawn out smudges of a slightly darker grey. The mud and the humidity that gathered in the earth were just as hellish as the water. In either of the two, on land or in the water, you finished sopping wet. Your clothes gave off a rancid smell and stuck across your body. They weighed a bit more every day. The clothes and boots and cold all made their movements rather clumsy. They hauled themselves around, dragging all this and their grievances.
July was long and cruel. July killed off all hopes. A sullen irritation gripped them. The river and the sky were one, a grey and muddy wall. The islands, drawn out smudges of a slightly darker grey. The mud and the humidity that gathered in the earth were just as hellish as the water. In either of the two, on land or in the water, you finished sopping wet. Your clothes gave off a rancid smell and stuck across your body. They weighed a bit more every day. The clothes and boots and cold all made their movements rather clumsy. They hauled themselves around, dragging all this and their grievances.
The single consolation was to make a decent fire. A fire wasn’t only good for banishing the cold. Its flames, restless and boisterous, reminded them of life. But at times the cold and nuisance of it made them lose their nerve, so much so that they didn’t have the will to light a fire. They climbed inside the canvas then, the dog pressed in between them, and they slept.
Each hour of the day was exactly like all others. There was no real change between the morning and the afternoon. The night came very quickly, without the lengthy prelude or the nuances of summer. It was a cold darkness coming from the east and like a tide, and it advanced above their heads with a silent swiftness. They knew no other moment quite as desolate as this, when the cold breath blew against them.
This was how July went by. Long and cruel, but all the same it ended.
August was a strange month. The month of August always is. It even came upon them in the figure of a stranger.
They returned before the dark, as was their habit. The night came later now and the cold was far less biting. But winter was so deep in them they didn’t even notice. The light was still quite good, although the early stars were shining.
They climbed aboard and tied the little boat onto a bitt. The dog was very nervous from the moment it jumped up with them. It started sniffing round the deck and then jumped in the cockpit, where it let out stifled growls at the doorway to the cabin.
‘What the hell’s got in there?’ he said, his voice a bit uncertain.
He knew the dog by now and understood it was alarmed.
Then he saw the little fellow bending down towards the deck. He seemed to study something. He was still up in the bow and the little fellow was halfway down the boat. There was nothing on the deck where he looked around his feet. And yet, a little further on, and when he looked more closely, there were several blackish smudges, starting at the starboard rail and running towards the cockpit. The little fellow stood halfway down the trail of smudges. He moved towards the gunwale, where they started, and he touched one. He was startled when he realised what it was.
He took up the machete and then edged towards the cockpit. He signalled to the little fellow, as he went by him, not to move. The dog began to bark like mad on seeing him draw near. He stepped into the cockpit, and nudged the cabin door with the point of the machete.
He couldn’t see a thing. The inside of the cabin was submerged in semi-darkness. He should have lit the lantern that he carried on the rowing boat. He had another one inside, hanging on a deck beam, but out of reach right now. The dark was better anyway. The lantern would have dazzled him, making him a target. He’d also have to go back to the bow.
He nestled down beside the door and kept as still as possible. He’d think what he was going to do. The dog had stopped its barking and was stretching out its neck to reach its head into the cabin. He saw a few more smudges on the floorboards of the cockpit. He saw them even though the night was falling quickly, as if the stains were floating very slightly off the floor. They were thick and very dark. He felt a little giddy. Was it someone with an interest in the boat, or just a passer-by? And what about the blood?
He tried to peer above the dog. He leaned into the darkness of the cabin for a second. It wasn’t longer than that. And he didn’t see a thing. But now he knew with certainty that someone was inside. Waiting in that silence. He had the clearest feeling of another body lying there. What he felt above all was a cold and hardened gaze that wrapped around him like a draught, or a breath.
Looking far away across the gunwale of the boat, he saw that night was coming. He saw the stars above his head, close by. But there was still a little light down at the level of the deck. The dog was turning restlessly and rubbing up against him. He stroked along its back in an attempt to keep it calm.
He whispered to the dog.
‘What’s the matter, Capi?’
He heard a noise behind him and he turned around, alarmed. It had to be the little fellow. But he sounded overwrought.
He signalled him to move away. The blood banged in his temples. The little fellow was in the stern, and to someone in the cabin would be easily discernible against the evening sky. He must have stood out squat and black, and cut out on the piece of sky that fell inside the door frame. If he had a weapon there, the other could have brought him down in one. And shot him, too, when he’d leaned into the cabin. If he wasn’t stupid. Although he’d done it quickly. Whichever way you looked at it, he’d acted like an idiot.
He remembered Sagastume and he didn’t want to take any risks. Remembered many stories of the river, and their many stupid deaths. You never know what’s coming from this river. The man might not be armed. It might be some poor devil. Whoever, it was possible he didn’t want more problems, what with being in that state. A lot of things were possible. For one, that he was waiting for the right time to dispatch them both with absolute assurance. Even out of confusion.
He leaned forward.
‘Hey there, friend! We don’t want any trouble… it’s best if you come out from there…’
He waited for a little while, holding in his breath. There wasn’t any answer, but he heard the breathing now. It rose and fell inside the darkness, almost as a moan at times.
‘Come on now, pal… we’re not out to get you… has someone messed you up?’
He heard the breathing, nothing else.
He quickly slipped up to the bow and came back with the lantern and the boathook. He signalled to the little fellow. The dark was almost total now. He took the lantern, lit it, and then hung it on the boathook. He fed it through the side hatch, right into the cabin. He kept the light away from him like this. He gestured to the little fellow to come and hold the boathook steady, and ran up to the stern. From there he had a clear view of the inside of the cabin, and couldn’t be seen himself. The light hung at the entrance would be dazzling the man. Its metal screen was this side, so it didn’t dazzle him.