“It’s a roadrunner,” he told the tracker. “It can spend hours doing that.”
“Get your shotgun out,” Gauna growled.
Carlos laughed. He maneuvered his horse so that he was in the lead, and the bird immediately adopted him. The other two fell back, listening to the young painter’s laughter each time the roadrunner repeated its senseless gesture.
“Birds of a feather flock together,” said Gauna.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Clarke replied. “Have you never seen a roadrunner before?”
“If I have, I didn’t notice. I’ve had more important things to do.”
“Don’t imagine that to observe Nature is simply a waste of time, Mister Gauna. It can also be a profession, as in my case.”
“So you knew what it was?”
“Yes, and all the species in its family. .”
“Well then, what did you learn by looking at it?” his companion interjected.
“. . the family of the ‘caprimulgidae.’”
“Fascinating,” Gauna drawled laconically.
“It’s more fascinating than you might think. There are experts who have devoted their lives to studying this one family.”
“Incredible! What a way to waste their time.”
“They are nocturnal birds. . ”
At this, the gaucho burst out laughing, which was unusual for him. He was genuinely amused. It was after all broad daylight.
“The roadrunner is the one which comes out earliest, before sunset.”
“I can see that.”
Annoyed by now, Clarke said nothing more. He was a patient man, but he had his limits. Suddenly the bird flew off, with a plaintive cry. Carlos dropped back, and Gauna took the lead once more. The sun began to set. They did not even think of coming to a halt. This was the best time of day for riding. In addition to the refreshing coolness, the light took on a new luster; as it grew dark, the air became more crystalline, and distances defined themselves more clearly. As happened every evening, a glorious pink wash of color spread across the sky. The silence became deeper, denser. Even the two inveterate conversationalists fell quiet. They must have ridden on for a further two hours, until the day gave way to night and the stars began to shine. Stillness reigned. They made camp out in the open, gathering together fossilized straw and strips of quebracho wood for a fire, which Clarke lit with his British tinderbox. As every night, they were exhausted, and moved like slow clockwork figures. It seemed incredible to them that the grass was no longer running backward, two and a half yards beneath their eyes. The horses formed a friendly group around them. They gave them water to drink from a small barrel, then fed them. Afterward, it was their turn: they made some tea, and roasted some small partridges, speaking only in monosyllables, then made ready for the night. All this was done quite rapidly, so that it was only now that the night was losing its final glow in the west. Well fed, relaxed, and with a refreshing tea soothing their aching bodies, their spirits rose again. They could hear the steady breathing of the horses around them. Gauna lit a cheroot, which for him was a sign of good humor.
“I’d go for a bit of a walk,” Clarke said, “if it didn’t seem impossible to do so here.”
“Off you go,” Carlos replied, “just pretend you’re in London.”
A snigger, then they both lay down flat on their backs on their blankets.
“What an incredible number of stars,” the boy said.
“It’s an impressive sight, isn’t it?”
“Each one in its spot, every single night. It’s incredible how they don’t all get mixed up.”
“It makes you feel so tiny looking up at them, so insignificant.”
“People always say that.”
“The thing is that faced with Nature, the obvious is the only thing to say.”
“How do you mean, Nature?”
“I mean, the world.”
“I thought Nature was things like the grass.”
“No; it’s everything.”
“Us too?”
“Us above all.”
“I wouldn’t change myself for anything or anybody.”
“You’ve spoken the first and last law of Nature. The stars aren’t replaceable either. Nor is a single blade of grass.”
“But I also think that anything in the world would really like to take my place. And in fact, I think they do so at every minute, without my even being aware of it.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head again. It’s as though Nature were to speak through your mouth — and perhaps it does.”
“It’s strange you don’t say ‘mother Nature.’”
“Is that the expression in Spanish as well? I didn’t say it, but I was thinking it. I thought it might sound odd in another
language.”
“You shouldn’t be so worried. It’s much nicer if you just let yourself go.”
“What’s that?” Clarke said, sitting up suddenly and staring at a huge white circle rising above the horizon.
“The moon,” Gauna said drily.
They watched it emerge in silence. Once it had risen above the horizon line, it seemed to shrink to its normal size.
“Mister Clarke,” Carlos said, “tell me something honestly: are you an atheist?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
Gauna threw them a withering look as if they had both gone mad. The Englishman’s face dropped, and he said nothing. He felt strangely content at the youth’s admission, although he was convinced it was nothing more than a coincidence: he was an atheist after thinking it through, Carlos before having done so. But that was also a kind of coincidence, perhaps all the more striking for not being on the same level.
At that very moment, in the deep silence of the night, they heard a dry barking sound close by.
“What was that? Did you cough, Gauna?”
“It’s a fox,” the gaucho said.
Clarke picked up his shotgun.
“Let’s see if I can bag it.”
He set off in one direction, but Gauna pointed him in the opposite one. “He’s over there.”
“Let’s see.”
The plain was bathed in moonlight. Everything was an ashen gray color. The Englishman raised the gun to his shoulder in a classic gesture. With a loud “click,” he cocked the gun: something moved about twenty or thirty yards away. He fired. Carlos went with him to examine the result.
“I knew you wouldn’t miss him,” the boy said when they came to where the dead fox was lying, its bushy tail covering it like an eiderdown.
6: Clarke’s Confession
Three or four days later, they were in exactly the same situation. The distances were as huge as ever, the sky changed colors on cue, they swapped horses regularly, the weather continued stable. Gauna was still morose, Prior irrepressible. His way of conversing was in itself irrepressible, consisting as it did of tiny, meaningless sallies thrown out at every step and at any excuse. He had begun to address Clarke familiarly, both out of sheer exuberance and because, as he said, he considered they were twin souls. At times, Clarke was unsure whether the youth’s remarks were mere absurdities or deliberate mockery, as when Prior showed himself both inquisitive and disbelieving over the question of Clarke’s bachelorhood:
“You’re thirty-five already, Clarke! What are you waiting for to get married?”
“In England, no one marries before they’re forty.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! How can everyone get married when they’re old! No, no, in your case, there’s something very special going on.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know. I rack my brains over it, but I can’t find the