The Vortex: A Novel 9780822371762

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e VORTEX

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e VORTEX A Novel

José Eustasio Rivera

Translated and with an Introduction by

John Charles Chasteen Duke University Press · Durham and London · 2018

© 2018 Duke University Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper ♾ Designed by Matthew Tauch Typeset in Garamond Premier Pro by Graphic Composition, Inc., Bogart, Georgia Library of Congress ­Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Rivera, José Eustasio, 1888–1928, author. | Chasteen, John Charles, [date] translator, writer of introduction. Title: The vortex : a novel / José Eustasio Rivera ; translated and with an Introduction by John Charles Chasteen Other titles: Voragine. English Description: Durham : Duke University Press, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2017039955 (print) lccn 2018000302 (ebook) isbn 9780822371762 (ebook) isbn 9780822370857 (hardcover : alk. paper) isbn 9780822371106 (pbk. : alk. paper) Classification: lcc pq8179.r54 (ebook) | lcc pq8179.r54 v713 2018 (print) | ddc 863/.62—dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039955

Cover art: Design and illustration by Matthew Tauch.

For Arturo Escobar and Juan Carlos González Espitia, dear Colombian friends whose love for the original inspired my translation

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Contents

Introduction: A Player in the Rainforest ix

Prologue 1

Part One 3

Part Two 81

Part Three 147

Epilogue 219

The setting of The Vortex

Introduction

A Player in the Rainforest

Arturo Cova, protagonist of The Vortex, is a player, skilled in the manly arts of deceitful seduction. And he is a poet, which no doubt makes him a better player but also, at least occasionally, makes him a sensitive man. Mostly, though, Arturo Cova is a fulsome fictional exemplar of a sort of masculinity (think Don Juan Tenorio, think Tale of Genji) focused on amorous conquest. Don’t expect to like him at the beginning, or perhaps, ever— although that is, of course, up to you. By the end, his trials and tribulations have clearly made him a better person. Moreover, Cova is a fictional mouthpiece who denounces very real abuses of human rights, always a likable trait in my book. Still, I rather enjoyed knowing from the outset that he is to be devoured by the jungle. That ultimate outcome is among the most famous aspects of the novel, and with good reason. Announcing Cova’s doom is the chief job of the novel’s framing tale, the first thing we read. A representative of the Colombian government in a remote Amazonian region supposedly presents

a manuscript left by Cova: this is the bulk of The Vortex. It contains sensational denunciations of conditions suffered by Colombian rubber tappers in Brazil and Peru, and it indicates that Cova has vanished forever in the rainforest. Arturo Cova represents a well-­defined Latin American social type, the young elite man of letters. His family has enough rural wealth to allow him a law degree and a life of bohemian leisure in the capital city, Bogotá. He has become markedly an urban person. He is a serial seducer and “deflowerer” of girls who are often not his social equals, but who are led to believe, whether or not he explicitly promises it, that he will marry them. During his student years, this playing around may even be the chief focus of the young player’s life. Afterward, perhaps he will gain government employment requiring little actual labor, or perhaps invest in a profitable business venture that will contribute to the modernization of his country. Or perhaps not. In the meantime, he basks in the modest prestige of his slender volume of poetry. An interest in poetry does not distinguish Cova from many other students of his generation, however. Literary pretentions proliferated, a century ago, among young elite males with the wit for it. Mastery of literary language was a key aspect of their prestige. In his seminal text, The Lettered City, Uruguayan critic Angel Rama described the process whereby elite males “inscribed” the Latin American countryside, writing it into national life and appropriating it for their own, urban purposes. The Vortex (1924) constitutes an outstanding example of that process, making it one of the most famous Latin American novels of the twentieth century. Often, as in The Vortex, Latin American writers of the early 1900s focused on regions remote from the relatively sophisticated capital cities. Across the hemisphere, their novels culminated a ­century-­long process of literary nation building.1 The Vortex was the most prominent of these novels internationally. It was soon translated into French, German, Italian, Russian, and Portuguese, as well as English.2 It says something about the novel’s international stature that, when Biblioteca Ayacucho began to publish its notable collection of emblematic Latin American classics in the 1970s, The Vortex was its fourth title, of more than a hundred. No doubt, this was partly due to the editorial influence of Angel Rama, but the novel’s lurid depictions of the “jungle” certainly contributed to its wide appeal, too, as did its a­ ction-­packed plot. In addition, the sensational human rights abuses detailed in The Vortex are highly relevant to understanding the early ­twentieth-­century rubber boom in Amazonia as a whole. Mario Vargas Llosa’s recent novel x · Introduction

The Dream of the Celt deals with some of the same general events as The Vortex.3 José Eustasio Rivera, the author of The Vortex, was born in 1888 in the southern Andean region of Colombia, far from Amazonia. He became acquainted with the rainforest and the rubber boom when, in 1916, after finishing his law degree in Bogotá, he joined a government commission tasked to clarify the ­Venezuelan-­Colombian border. Rivera’s function on the expedition was legal secretary, and portions of The Vortex were apparently written at various campsites. Rivera’s brush with the rainforest was thus limited but real and reasonably extensive. The Vortex was published in Bogotá in 1924, to immediate acclaim—so much acclaim, in fact, that Rivera was able to arrange an English translation quickly at a time when English translations of Latin American fiction were incalculably rare. He died suddenly in 1928 while on a visit to New York, where he was arranging for the English translation and discussing movie rights. Much like his protagonist Arturo Cova, whose biography parallels his own in obvious ways, the novelist Rivera had published a well-­received book of poetry in his youth, and he aspired to infuse his prose with a poetic language and sensibility. Early drafts even had occasional meter and rhyme that he had created inadvertently. Rivera loved rarefied vocabulary, which is what most later Colombian readers seem to remember about their reading of The Vortex in high school. I recall that, as a new reader of Spanish in the 1970s, I found the novel very heavy going. It sent me to the dictionary more times than any other reading in my first Latin American literature course. For me, Rivera’s poetic prose gave new meaning to the word “florid.” The 1935 English translation, to which I had desperate recourse at the time, communicated the meaning well enough but failed to preserve Rivera’s innovative style at all. For example, the 1935 translation forced the novel’s ­quick-­flowing two-­to ­three-­page sections into a conventional chapter structure. Here, I have endeavored to preserve more of the unconventional edginess of Rivera’s prose and the naturalness of his dialogue, while dialing back the floridness of his purple patches. As for the novel’s mood, attitude, action, description, and characterization, it has been re-­created in full. Nothing else will do because, in this novel, every detail matters. Try to skim it, and you will lose the plot almost entirely. The exposition sneaks up on you. Whenever you find yourself wondering if something can really be happening, the answer is always yes. The true main character of The Vortex, far more important than Arturo Cova, is the Amazonian “jungle” itself. What does that mean? Introduction · xi

The “jungle,” one could say for starters, is the rainforest. But there’s a big difference. The “rainforest” is benign, brimming with the biodiversity upon which the future of our planet partly depends. Above all, the rainforest is threatened. The “jungle,” in contrast, is threatening, brimming with snakes and piranhas and poisons and diseases. Furthermore, the jungle seems actively malicious. Not only can it very easily kill you, it wants to. Rivera’s trees are poetically plotting to avenge humanity’s decimation of the world’s forests. Rivera’s human characters struggle against the malignant jungle, which “devours” them in the end.4 Rivera thus answers and adds to earlier Romantic visions of the natural world, and notably, his devouring jungle is feminine: la selva. Overall, Rivera’s “jungle” reflects an outmoded way of thinking about the natural world, as something to be conquered and subdued by “man.” It contrasts starkly with the modish celebration of all things “ecological” in Colombia today. In the 1920s, the Amazonian rainforest was still home to many indigenous tribes that had maintained their own ways of life for centuries, entirely separate from the national societies of Colombia, Venezuela, Peru, Brazil, Ecuador, and Bolivia. The indigenous people figured among the most victimized workers during the Amazonian rubber boom, as Rivera makes clear. Unfortunately, though, his view of the “Indians” seems as dated today as is his view of the “jungle.” Rivera’s description of the rubber boom, overall, is ­quasi-­ethnographic in detail, while his indigenous characters remain inscrutable Others. Rivera does recount various “superstitions” and practices, as well as one indigenous legend in detail. Given the limits of his training and experience, however, the authenticity of his ethnography is questionable. Unquestionably believable and compelling, in comparison, is his description of visiting the rainforest itself. Get ready for water. Still today, visiting Amazonia means spending a lot of time in boats, large and small, including large riverboats, houseboats, tiny canoes, and all sorts of craft in between. The route from any place to any other place, for the characters of The Vortex, is discussed in terms of rivers, and if the characters are ever far from a riverbank, they are in danger. Until quite recently, deep, meandering, slow-­moving rivers—large and small—were Amazonia’s only roads. This is because the South American continent has high edges and a flat, low center at the precipitation-­drenched equator. As a result, water accumulates deep in the continent before finding its way to the sea through a few great river systems. The greatest of these is the Amazon River basin, which is large enough for seagoing ships to ascend a thousand miles upriver. Many of its tributary rivers are larger than the Mississippi. Even so, altogether they are xii · Introduction

not enough to accommodate the biggest seasonal rains. Then the Amazon and its tributaries spread out of their banks to cover vast, forested floodplains for several months of the year. During this time, the aquatic life swims around roots of the enormous trees that compose the forest canopy. Among those great trees are several whose sap contains latex, natural rubber. To get at it, people cut incisions in the bark of the tree, so that the sap dripped into cups or buckets, rather as contemporary New Englanders tapped maple sap to make syrup. The latex sap was then congealed over a smoky fire to form solid balls, roughly the size of a basketball, and exported in that form. During the 1800s, natural rubber found many uses, such as waterproofing raincoats or boots. After the 1880s, rapid urbanization led to the paving of city streets, and all street vehicles began to need rubber tires. The advent of the automobile threw street paving and rubber consumption into high gear, and in Amazonia a rubber boom began. Amazonian rubber trees had never been successfully cultivated. Collecting rubber meant finding the trees that grew naturally scattered in the rainforest and tapping them there. Large-­scale exporters from outside the region controlled the rubber trade. They had the capital, the connections, the warehouses, and the large riverboats needed to bring provisions in and take rubber out. They held their rubber tappers as virtual slaves, through debt peonage, a practice sadly common in Latin American history. Through this practice, workers became indebted when labor recruiters (enganchadores, from a word meaning “to hook”) signed them up with a cash advance. Afterward, unable to grow their own food or acquire it anywhere else, the workers consumed overpriced company rations that consistently cost more than the workers earned. The workers were then bound to their employer by continuing debt, unable to leave until it was paid off, which meant more or less never. The Vortex was written to denounce this system as well as other abuses that are vividly described in the novel. Although the particular instances are fictional, the general phenomenon was only too prevalent. Overall, readers can consider Rivera’s fictionalized picture to be a sort of ­century-­old prose docudrama, accurate in outline and in some, but not all, particulars. The characters who drive the plot are purely fictional inventions who existed nowhere outside the novel, but the setting and major political or economic actors, such as Carlos Arana, the Peruvian rubber baron, and Carlos Funes, the Venezuelan regional boss, are based on real individuals, and sometimes, as in those two cases, they are even identified by their real names. The massacre at San Fernando de Atabapo really happened, the Casa Arana really hired a French scientist whom it then, apparently, murdered, and so on. The Introduction · xiii

novel’s protagonist seems clearly based on Rivera himself, who had direct experience in Colombia’s remote southeastern regions. Note that I say “regions,” in the plural. Besides the Amazonian rainforest, a second Colombian region—thus far unmentioned—figures centrally in the novel. This is the llanos, or Orinoco River plain, which drains to the sea through Venezuela rather than Brazil. This is Orinoquia, rather than Amazonia. Rivera made an extended visit to the llanos as a young man, and some of his most polished descriptive passages may have been written at that time. The llanos are a land of open vistas, not extensive forests, a land of llanero cowboys and cattle drives, although still a land of great rivers that spread out of their banks for months during the rainy season. Very unlike North American cowboys, however, dismounted llaneros feel quite at home in a canoe. Orinoquia is mostly in Venezuela, and the reader will notice that Colombian llaneros and Venezuelan llaneros mix easily with each other. Llanero lifeways and speech and music have much in common on both sides of the border. That observation raises the last topic that requires consideration here, the meaning of nationality in the novel. Rivera meant to condemn, above all, the exploitation of Colombian nationals by nationals of other countries, although he also highlights the “collaboration” of bad Colombians. His nationalism is clear enough. However, once his characters enter the rainforest, the reader will often not have a clear idea of whether they are in Colombia, Venezuela, Peru, or Brazil at a given moment. National boundaries had little meaning in this sparsely populated, densely forested land. The indigenous people of the rainforest considered themselves “nationals” of their own tribes. They responded little, or not at all, to invocations of Colombian, Venezuelan, Peruvian, or Brazilian nationalism. No government had a strong administrative, judicial, or military presence in Amazonia or Orinoquia. Those attributes of nationality were manifested in a very few towns—such as Iquitos (Peru) and Manaus (Brazil)—dotting a vast area of rainforest. The economic boom attracted people into Amazonia from all sides, producing a motley mix of nationalities in the rubber camps. Race mixture was common, as well, and it is even more difficult to “see” in the text than is nationality. Several characters are called mulato, and one, catire (a similar, but lighter, mix). However, the reader would do well to imagine that a minority of characters in this novel (mostly outsiders to Orinoquia or Amazonia) are purely of European descent. A slight degree of race mixture in these regions passes without comment, even by urban outsiders. xiv · Introduction

In sum, beyond its famous poetic descriptions and its indubitable story­ telling verve, The Vortex offers a sweeping and accurate view of dramatic events in the Colombian backlands (and beyond), circa 1900–1920. First you’ll see the faux official memo from the author Rivera, reading the mysterious, found manuscript into the official record. Then the protagonist Cova begins his story. He has fled Bogotá with a young woman he has succeeded in seducing, and the direction that they have taken is toward Casanare, a fabled territory in the wild and woolly llanos. Buen viaje!

Notes 1. Outstanding contributions to this hemispheric body of literature include Doña Barbara by Rómulo Gallegos (1929, Venezuela) and Don Segundo Sombra by Ricardo Güiraldes (1926, Argentina). Brazil’s major writers Graciliano Ramos, José Lins do Rego, Jorge Amado, and Euclides da Cunha also contributed. Elsewhere in Latin America, post-­1910 novels of the Mexican Revolution likewise explored on-­the-­ground realities, usually regionally. In Peru and Ecuador, indigenista novels, focusing on the lives of indigenous people, were part of the same search for national authenticity and inclusiveness. A complete listing would go on for pages. 2. English translation by E. K. James, 1935. 3. El sueño del celta (2010). 4. A similarly overpowering and enveloping “jungle” appears in the short stories of Horacio Quiroga, Cuentos de amor, de locura y de muerte (1917).

Introduction · xv

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Prologue

To the Minister of Foreign Relations: In accordance with your instructions, please find enclosed herewith my transcription of a manuscript (forwarded to the Ministry of Foreign Relations by the Consul of Colombia in Manaus) by the recently disappeared poet Arturo Cova. I have left the writer’s style intact, even including an occasional grammatical infelicity, limiting my editorial interventions to an explanation of the regional vocabulary that occasionally appears. If I may be permitted to express my own opinion in the matter, I believe that this book should not be published without independent confirmation of its denunciations concerning the conditions suffered by Colombian rubber tappers in the Amazonian territories of neighboring republics. Should you decide in favor of immediate publication, however, please remit any additional information at your disposal to me immediately so that it may be appended to this manuscript by way of epilogue. Your obedient servant, José Eustasio Rivera

Those who expected brilliant things of me, who forgot me as soon as my misfortunes began, who remembered me afterward only to puzzle at my failure—let them know that it was my destiny to be swept away, across the llanos to the jungle beyond, to wander like the wind, and die away leaving nothing of substance, only noise and desolation, behind. —Excerpt from a letter written by Arturo Cova

Part One

I

Before I fell for any woman, I lost my heart to a sensation. Call it Intensity. No fainting sensitivities, no tender looks and confidences for me. More than a lover, I was always the subjugator. My lips did not know how to plead. And yet, I still believed in the ideal of love, still wanted the divine gift of spiritual fire to spread over my body like flames over tinder. When Alicia’s eyes worked their unfortunate magic on me, I had almost given up hope. My arms, grown tired of liberty, had reached out to many women—seeking to be enchained—but no one guessed my secret dreams, nor disturbed the silence in my heart. Alicia required little effort. She gave herself without hesitation, all for the love she hoped to find in me. She was not thinking about marriage, even after her family conspired to fix everything, with the help of the priest, by force if need be. She revealed their plans to me, saying that she would never marry, that she would not stand in the way of my future happiness.

Then, when her family cast her out and the judge informed my lawyer that I would be going to jail for ravishment, I went to Alicia’s hiding place and declared my resolve not to abandon her. “My future is yours. Promise me your love, and we’ll escape together to somewhere far from Bogotá.” And we were off to the Casanare territory.

That night, the first in Casanare, my confidant was Insomnia. Through the mosquito netting, in the limitless heavens, I watched the winking stars. The palms under which we camped stopped their rustling, and an infinite silence floated in the air, making it thicker and bluer. Beside my string hammock, Alicia slept, breathing heavily, in her narrow cot. “What have you done?” I thought. “What of your future, your dreams of glory, and the beginnings of your literary success? And what about this young woman, whom you sacrifice to your desire? Idiot! Once your desire is satisfied, what good is the body that you have acquired at such a high price? Because Alicia’s spirit has never really belonged to you. Even now, when you can feel the heat and murmur of her breathing at your shoulder, you remain as far away from her spiritually as from that constellation sliding toward the horizon over there.” I felt less emboldened now, not because I feared to confront the consequences of my actions, but rather because after the intensity of love and possession comes something else. I was already bored with Alicia. The hair-­raising stories about Casanare did not frighten me. My instincts impelled me to defy the dangers of the wild frontier. I was certain that I would survive to tell the tale and later, amid the civilized comforts of some city as yet unknown to me, look back on the dangers of Casanare with nostalgia. Alicia, on the other hand, weighed on me like an iron shackle around my ankle. She had left Bogotá in a great upset and demonstrated her complete uselessness the first day on the road. Why couldn’t she be a little tougher and more capable? She had never ridden a horse and could not even stand to be in the direct sun very long. She kept dismounting and saying that she preferred to walk, obliging me to do the same. I was amazingly patient with her. There we were, supposedly fugitives, ambling along at a snail’s pace, leading our mounts as if on a Sunday stroll, unable to get off the road to avoid meeting the occasional travelers coming in the other direction. Most were simple country people who stopped to 4 · The Vortex

ask me, with concerned expressions and hat in hand, why the young lady was crying. Several times I tried with a rope to pull down the telegraph wire that ran along the road, but I gave up the attempt, possibly because of a vague desire to be captured. At least that way I would be free of Alicia and would recover the liberty of spirit that physical detention cannot take away. Arriving in sight of the town of Cáqueza, which lay squarely in our path, we stopped to await the cover of darkness. The authorities there might have been informed of our flight. Skirting the town, we slipped into the sugarcane fields that flanked the river, our nags munching noisily on the cane without pausing in their stride. It was harvest time, and we approached a sugar mill that was working all night. Taking shelter under a makeshift canopy of palm fronds, we listened to the groaning of the wooden grinders crushing cane. Shadows passed across the flickering glow of the fire that reduced the sap to cane syrup: first, the large shadow of the oxen that walked a circular path to drive the machinery, then, the small shadow of the little boy who followed behind, prodding the oxen with a pointed stick to keep them moving. Some women were preparing a meal, and they gave Alicia an infusion of herbs with medicinal properties. We stayed with them for a week.

Meanwhile, I paid one of the sugar workers to bring me news from Bogotá, and the news was disturbing. My flight with Alicia had created a great scandal, and the story was on everyone’s lips. The whisperings of my personal enemies fanned the flames, and the newspapers took advantage of the public’s prurient interest. I had sent a letter to a friend requesting his help, and his reply was discouraging indeed. It concluded: “If you return, you’ll surely be arrested. Casanare is now your only refuge, I’m afraid. Who will look for a man like you in a place like that?” That same afternoon, Alicia warned me that the owner of the mill considered us suspicious. His wife had asked Alicia whether we were brother and sister, man and wife, or perhaps merely friends, and she said that if we happened to be counterfeiters, “there being nothing wrong with that, in view of the present regime,” she would like to see a sample. So we left the next day before dawn. “Don’t you think, Alicia, that we may really have no reason to flee? Wouldn’t it be better to return to Bogotá?” Part One · 5

“Now I’m sure you’re tired of me!” she wailed. “Why did you bring me, then? It was your idea! Get out of here! Go to Casanare by yourself, and leave me alone!” She started sobbing again. And again I felt sorry for her. By now she had revealed to me the whole sad story. While still quite young, she had fallen in love with her cousin, an inconsequential boy not much older than herself, and they secretly swore to be married one day. Her mother and father had other ideas, however. They intended to marry her to a rich old landowner who was not to Alicia’s taste in the slightest. Then I appeared on the scene, and the aging suitor, fearing the new competition, redoubled his suit. The value and frequency of his gifts increased and, with the help of Alicia’s enraptured family, he seemed about to attain the prize. That is when Alicia, seeking to escape at all cost, hurled herself into my arms. But the danger had not passed, because the old landowner still wanted to marry her, it seemed, in spite of everything. “I won’t go back,” she insisted, jumping off her horse. “Leave me! I don’t want anything from you. I’ll walk along this road and ask everyone for charity before I accept anything from you. Bastard!” And she sat down in the grass. Having lived long enough, I knew better than to reason with a woman in that state, so I remained firmly mute while she sat pulling grass up convulsively by the fistful. “Alicia, this only proves that you never loved me.” “Never!” She looked away as she complained bitterly about my shameless deceptions. “Do you think I didn’t see you looking at that girl back there? Oh, you’re the sly one! And telling me that we had to stay there for days because I wasn’t well. If that’s now, what will later be like? Get out of here! I won’t go anywhere at all with you, much less to Casanare!” Her reproaches made me blush, ­tongue-­tied, but her jealousy was agreeable to my pride, and it set me free. I had the impulse to jump off my horse to give her a farewell embrace. It couldn’t be my fault, after all, if she sent me away. As I was dismounting to improvise a good-­bye, we saw a man come galloping down the hill toward us. Alicia clutched my arm in fright. The man dismounted a short distance away and approached, hat in hand. “Permit me a word, sir.” “Me?” I answered with an energetic voice. 6 · The Vortex

“Yes, if you please,” and throwing a corner of his poncho over his shoulder, he extended a hand holding a piece of paper. “My godfather sends you this notification.” “Who is your godfather?” “The judge and mayor of Cáqueza.” “This isn’t for me,” I said, returning the document to him without having read it. “You aren’t the ones who were at the sugar mill, then?” “Absolutely not. I’m the new intendant of Villavicencio, which is where I’m headed now, with my wife.” The man hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I thought that you were counterfeiters,” he managed. “They sent word about you from the sugar mill, but my godfather is at his ranch, because he only comes to the town hall on market days, and keeps the office locked up other days. There were a couple of telegrams, too, and since I’m the main deputy now . . .” Without allowing him further time for explanations, I ordered him to hold my wife’s horse so that she could mount. Alicia concealed her face so that the stranger would not notice her pallor. He watched us ride away without uttering a word, but he then climbed on his worthless mare to follow us. Soon he was alongside of us, smiling. “If you please, sir, sign the notification so that my godfather will see that it was served and I did what I’m supposed to do. You can sign as intendant of Villavicencio.” “Do you have a pen?” “No, but we’ll get one up ahead. It’s that . . . if you don’t sign, I’ll end up in jail.” “How so?” I inquired, without slowing down. “God willing you’ll help me, sir, if you’re really an authority. I’ve had the misfortune that I’m accused of stealing a cow, and I was brought to Cáqueza to face charges, but my godfather let me be on house arrest, and since I had no house, that meant anywhere in town, and then he needed a deputy, so he honored me with the position. My name is Pepe Morillo Nieto, but they call me Pipa.” The talkative fellow offered to carry some of my baggage on his nag and, when I obliged him, continued to ride beside me, relating his tale of woe. “I don’t have money for a decent poncho and haven’t worn shoes for a while. And the hat on my head is more than two years old. It’s from Casanare.” Part One · 7

Alicia fixed her startled eyes on the man. “Have you lived in Casanare?” “Yes ma’am, I have. I know the llanos and I know the rubber fields of Amazonia, as well. Plenty of tigers and snakes I’ve killed, too, with God’s help.” Just then we met some muleteers with their train of mules, and Pipa spoke to them. “Do you have a pencil to lend, there? It’s for a signature.” “We don’t carry pencils,” said the men. As we rode on, I addressed Pipa under my breath. “Don’t mention Casanare in front of my wife.” And, in a normal voice: “Come with us, then, and later you can inform me of matters relating to the Intendencia.” Pipa was overjoyed. He became Alicia’s personal attendant for the rest of the day, ingratiating himself with his loquacity, and camped with us not far from Villavicencio. But that night he sneaked away with my horse and saddle.

A reddish glow interrupted my remembrance. It was old Rafo, don Rafael, blowing on the embers of the fire. In Casanare, travelers let a fire burn all night near their hammocks to fend off tigers and other nocturnal threats. Old Rafo knelt before the fire and bowed down, as if before a divinity, to enliven it with his breath. Silence still reigned in the melancholy solitude of the llanos, and a sense of the infinite descended on my spirit from the wide and starry skies. Memories filled my mind again, the enigma of my relationship with Alicia, my decision to begin a new life so different from the old, a life that would surely consume what remained of my youth and dreams. Alicia must have those same thoughts, I reflected, which gave me reason for both remorse and comfort. Like me, she was a seed borne by the wind, ignorant and fearful of where she might come to ground. She was so passionate and mercurial in her reactions. Sometimes the fatality of her situation triumphed over timidity, and she acted decisively. Most other times, however, she’d rather have swallowed poison to escape the position in which her family, her rich old suitor, and I had placed her. Still in Bogotá, she had reproached me for demanding her love. She may not love me the way I wanted, but what of it? Wasn’t I the man who had rescued her from inexperience only to leave her in disgrace? How could 8 · The Vortex

she learn to forgive me and not fear abandonment? How could I earn her trust? It wouldn’t be by making love to the country girls at each stop on our journey, if that’s what I had in mind. In her opinion, everything depended on me. “You know that I have no money, right?” “Oh, my family told me that often enough when you came courting,” she laughed bitterly. “It’s not the protection of your money I’m asking for, but of your heart.” “Alicia, you are asking for no more than I offered you, spontaneously, long ago. I’ve given up everything for you, and I’ve no idea if you’ll have the courage to face hardship and believe in me.” “Didn’t I give everything up for you, too?” “But you are afraid of Casanare.” “It’s you who makes me afraid.” “We’ll face everything together.” That was the dialogue that we had one night in a poor house in Villavicencio, as we waited for the chief of the local constabulary, a short, round, little man dressed in khaki with an alcoholic countenance and a scruffy salt-­and-­pepper mustache. “Good evening, sir,” I said to him in an unfriendly tone when he rested the scabbard of his saber in the doorway. “My dear poet,” he exclaimed, ogling Alicia and then puffing his alcoholic breath in my face, “this girl is a worthy sister of the muses, indeed! You must share with your friends!” He sat on the bench beside her, rubbing his fat body against hers and grabbing her wrists. “What a doll,” he puffed. “Don’t you remember me, doll? I’m Gámez y Roca, General Gámez y Roca. When you were little, I used to dandle you on my knee.” He tried to pull her into his lap, but Alicia cried out and pushed him away. “What is it that you want?” I growled, closing the door and spitting on him for good measure. “My dear poet, how you behave! Is this the way you repay someone who’s had the courtesy not to arrest you? Leave the girl with me! I’m a friend of the family, you see, and besides, in Casanare she’ll just die on you. Leave her with me, and I’ll keep all your secrets. She’s the evidence of your crime, right? So just leave her, and you’re a free man!” Before he could finish, I grabbed one of Alicia’s shoes with a reflexive jerk, slammed the man against the boards, and began to hammer his head Part One · 9

and face with the heel of it. The blubbering drunkard collapsed on the bags of rice that occupied a corner of the room. He was still there, snoring, half an hour later, when Alicia, old Rafo, and I set out, at last, onto the endless plains.

“Here’s coffee,” said don Rafo, standing in front of the mosquito netting. “Rise and shine, children! This is Casanare!” Alicia awoke and greeted us with a clean spirit and a heartfelt tone: “Is the sun really about to rise?” “Not just yet,” said Rafo, and he pointed at the moon descending to the Andes on the western horizon. “Say good-­bye to the mountains, because we won’t see anything from now on but plains, plains, and more plains.” As we gulped our coffee, the predawn breeze brought us the fresh scent of grass, green firewood, newly turned earth, and also faint whispers to insinuate themselves among the fans of the moriche palms. Occasionally, under the transparent starlight, one of them shook its fronds and bowed toward the east. An unexpected thrill pulsed in our veins, our spirits flowed out across the wide, open spaces and rose in gladness at life and creation. “Casanare is beautiful,” murmured Alicia several times. “I’m not sure why, but as soon as we set foot in the llanos, the place started to seem less frightening.” “This country pulls you in,” said don Rafo. “It gives you what you need to withstand it and thrive on it. It’s a wilderness where nobody feels alone, where the sun, wind, and storms are our brothers. Nobody fears them or curses them.” Don Rafo then asked me whether I rode as well as my father, and whether I was as brave in the face of danger. “The fruit never falls far from the tree!” I responded brashly, while Alicia, her face illuminated by the glow of the fire, smiled with confidence. Don Rafo was more than sixty years old and had been my father’s comrade during one of our many civil wars. Kindly and sympathetic, he retained the dignified look of a man who once occupied a higher station in life. His graying beard, balding pate, and tranquil visage suited his middling stature. On hearing my name in Villavicencio—that I was to be arrested—he came to me with the good news that Gámez y Roca had promised protection. From that moment Rafo bought what we needed in Villavicencio, attending to all of Alicia’s requests. He offered to be our guide, both outbound and 10 · The Vortex

upon our return. He had met us in Villavicencio by chance. Rafo was headed for a more northerly part of the llanos, Arauca, and on the way, he would leave us in Casanare at a friend’s cattle ranch, returning from Arauca several months later to reclaim us and guide us back. Old and widowed, don Rafo had taken a liking to the llanos. Now he earned a livelihood by making an annual expedition across the plains, trading in livestock and peddling retail odds and ends from a pair of pack mules. His son-­in-­law provided the modest capital required. He never bought more than fifty cattle and filled out his complement by driving half-­wild mustangs to buyers in the ranching districts of the lower Río Meta. “You’re sure that we’re free of the general?” “Absolutely.” “That beast scared me to death!” said Alicia. “Appearing at midnight! And saying that he knew me! I was shaking like a leaf. At least he got what he deserved.” Don Rafo gleefully celebrated my d­ erring-­do. A man for Casanare, indeed! As he spoke, he began to remove the hobbles from our horses’ feet and to ease the bridles over their ears. I lent a hand, and we were soon ready to be on our way. Alicia, who helped by holding the lantern, pleaded that we await sunrise. “So that fellow Pipa is a famous bandit?” I asked don Rafo. “The foxiest of them all. He’s landed in jail more than once, and after he does his time, he goes right back to banditry. He also occasionally leads a band of savages and can speak the language of several tribes. He knows the llanos like the back of his hand, rivers and everything.” “And he’s totally sneaky, lying, and obsequious,” added Alicia. “You are lucky he got away with only one horse! I’m sure he’s out here somewhere, not so far away . . .” Alicia looked at me nervously, but don Rafo’s spirited anecdotes put her at ease. And dawn rose up before our eyes. Without our realizing exactly when, a lightly blushing haze had ascended from the long grass to float above it like an undulating veil. The stars faded away to sleep, and on the opal horizon, the sky caught fire—a brushstroke of violet, then a glowing clot of crimson. Across the glory of the dawning sky shot whiny ducks, followed by darting, ­emerald-­green parrots, egrets floating like snowflakes, and multicolored guacamayas. And from everywhere, from the grassy plains and the diaphanous atmosphere, from the vast wetlands and the clumps Part One · 11

of palms, arose a breath of joy, a subtle accent, a kind of clarity and palpitation. Meanwhile, the first ray of the sun streaked across the enormous sky, and slowly, the dome of the sun emerged from the horizon before the amazed eyes of man and beast, to roll there redly before climbing into the blue. Alicia embraced me, tearful and exalted, murmuring “My God, the sun, My God, the sun,” as if in prayer. And with that, the three of us set out once more, to bury ourselves in the immensity.

Little by little chattiness gave way to tiredness. We had asked many questions that don Rafael answered with firm authority. We had learned to recognize a small clump of trees as a “mata,” wide expanses of grassy shallow water as “esteros” (or perhaps, if covered with enormous termite mounds, as “zurales”), and flowing watercourses as “caños.” Alicia finally saw a deer. Half a dozen were grazing in an estero, and when they got wind of us, their ears swiveled in our direction. “Don’t waste bullets trying to bag one with a pistol,” instructed don Rafo. “I know they look close, but they’re actually five hundred meters off. It’s a known optical illusion of the llanos.” It was rather difficult to chat, anyway, as don Rafo rode ahead leading a pack animal, others trotting after them in the hot, dry grass. The atmosphere dazzled like a sheet of glowing metal, a dark mass of low trees in the distance. Now and then, the brilliance became so intense that it seemed to buzz. I dismounted frequently to refresh Alicia’s temples with a green lemon. As a parasol she wore a white shawl over her hat, and she wiped her eyes with the dangling corners of it whenever pangs of homesickness overcame her. Although I pretended to ignore her tears, the more-­than-­rosy color of her cheeks made me a bit fearful of heat exhaustion. But it was absolutely impossible to stop in the sun for a midday rest. There was no shade of any kind for miles, not a palm or even a hole in the ground. “Do you want to rest?” To my worried question, she replied, smiling: “When we reach the shade!” “Cover your face, then! The glare itself will cause sunburn!” Toward afternoon, fantastic cities appeared on the horizon. The distant profiles of trees to the west bloomed into f­ airy-­tale mirages, the ceibas and 12 · The Vortex

copeyes becoming red-­tile roofs. The untethered horses that followed don Rafo, now feeling oriented on the llano, began to gallop around us at a considerable distance. “They smell water,” observed our guide. “It’s still half an hour away, but there are trees, too, and we can cook there.” Our campsite was a wooded island surrounded by stinking swamp water and crusts of floating muck across which skittered tiny aquatic birds, keening loudly, their tail feathers flicking back and forth. After going almost all the way around the swamp to find our way into its dry, wooded center, we edged in along the bank, and I hobbled the horses, which stood considerably shorter in the mud. Don Rafo’s machete cleared a space at the base of an enormous tree, all covered with creepers, whose yellow flowers, to Alicia’s horror, occasionally rained harmless greenish worms on our heads. And we slung a hammock for Alicia and covered her with mosquito netting to keep away the bees, which, with an evident taste for her sweat, kept getting tangled in her hair. Once the fire began to smoke, however, we could all relax. I added more firewood, tossed to me by Rafo as he chopped it, and Alicia even offered to help me. “That’s not a job for the gentleman traveler,” she said. “Don’t try my patience, please. I ordered you to rest, and you should obey.” Resentful of my brusqueness, she sent her hammock swinging with a kick of her foot. But when Rafo and I went for water, she pleaded not to be left alone. “Come if you want to,” I told her, and she followed us down the overgrown trail. Leaves floated on the yellowish pond. Among them small turtles poked their red heads above water, while miniature alligators, likewise floating below the surface, showed only their lidless eyes. Herons that stood meditating on one leg suddenly stirred and wrinkled the scum with their long beaks, releasing fetid emanations that wafted under the trees like a mortuary veil. Breaking a branch, I leaned over to clear the water surface, when Alicia screamed and don Rafo pulled me back. An anaconda as thick as a man’s thigh emerged from the water, preparing to ensnare me. A couple of shots from my pistol sent it writhing away submerged, stirring up the swamp water, which lapped gently at our feet. And we returned to camp with water containers empty. Back at camp, Alicia lay trembling in panic under the mosquito netting. She felt faint and nauseous. A few sips of beer settled her stomach, but not Part One · 13

before terror arose in the pit of mine. Intuiting the cause of her nausea, I embraced the expectant mother and wept.

Once she was asleep, don Rafael and I stepped away from the camp, and sitting with him on a large tree root, I heard his unforgettable advice: It was better not to alert Alicia, during our time on the llano, to the reality of her delicate state. We should take the best care of her, not travel too far each day, and return to Bogotá within three months. Then everything would be fine. As for the rest, all children, whether conceived in wedlock or not, came from the same place, and you loved them the same. That’s the way it was in Casanare. Yes, he’d once wanted to make a brilliant marriage himself, but it seemed that destiny had other ideas. Fate steered him down an unexpected path. The young woman he chose proved better than the wife he’d imagined because, not thinking herself a grand lady, she’d dressed modestly and always thought herself lucky to have what he gave her. As it turned out, he’d had a happier home life than his brother, whose wife was a slave to pedigrees and social appearances. And now, here he was. No, one should never retreat in the face of conflicts, because only by seeing them c­ lose-­up did one know if they could be overcome. True, he did expect there to be a scandal among my relatives if I got a house and kept Alicia, even if I took her to the altar. But it was better not to worry too much ahead of time because fears always exceed possibilities. Maybe marriage was just not my fate, or if it were, why should my wife be anyone different from the woman fate gave me? What was wrong with Alicia? Wasn’t she intelligent and well-­bred, simple and respectable? Just where, by what rule, calculus, or statute, had I learned that prejudices must prevail over realities? What, other than my literary works, made me better than anyone else? A man of talent should act like death, which obeys no social distinctions. Why would I place another above Alicia? Was it the contagious foolishness of polite society, or perhaps the lure of wealth? And wasn’t wealth often ill-­gotten and relative, as well? Weren’t even our local potentates insignificant in comparison with those elsewhere? Wouldn’t I surely be all right, economically, one way or another? So why did I need to pay attention to the blandishments of the multitude? One has a principal challenge—all others pale in comparison—and that is to make enough money to support a modest life. The rest will follow. 14 · The Vortex

Silently, I sorted truth from exaggeration in his arguments. “Don Rafo,” I said, “I look at things a bit differently. I don’t question your reasoning, but the concerns you raise don’t preoccupy me for now. They are on my horizon, but far away. In regard to Alicia, the most serious problem is that I don’t love her. Instead, I have to pretend all the time, compensating for the absent sentiments with gallant attitudes and fearing that my gallantry will lead me to sacrifice myself for a woman who isn’t really mine, in the name of a love that I have never really felt. “I have acquired the reputation of a passionate lover in the eyes of many women, but always, always pretending, as a way to salve my inner loneliness. I searched for the true path diligently and sincerely, but all my hopes were chimeras, constructed by rampant fantasy, destroyed by inevitable disappointment and repudiation. In my self-­deception, repeatedly I sample a simulacrum of love, and each time I tire of it and set my sights on a new, even more exaggerated illusion. I seek a fl ­ esh-­and-­blood person whom I believe to possess the key to love, success, and well-­being. And yet the days pass, my youth has begun to wither, and still I search in vain. I’ve lived with natural women and not found simplicity, consorted with the most romantic and not found love, befriended the pious and not found faith. My heart is like a stone covered with damp moss, a teardrop always glistening on it somewhere. You’ve seen me crying today not because of weakness but because of resentment. I’m crying for my disappointed hopes, for my vanished dreams, for what I haven’t become in life, and now, apparently, never will!” Gradually speaking louder and louder, I realized that Alicia was awake. I moved toward her and caught her eavesdropping. “Do you need something?” I inquired and was disconcerted to receive no reply. It was time to continue our journey toward the stretch of palm-­studded high ground where don Rafo planned for us to spend the night. The place where we had stopped for water was extremely dangerous, being the only watering hole for miles around. After dark, all the wild beasts would come. We led our mounts out of the trees as the evening breeze began to sigh, rode miles farther before dismounting to camp under the fading sunset. As don Rafo lit a fire, I stepped away into the high grass to tie the horses for the night. At irregular intervals, the breeze brought to my ears a sound like a woman’s lament. Naturally, I thought of Alicia, who approached me, asking: “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Part One · 15

Together we again heard the mournful sound and looked searchingly in its direction, without discovering its mysterious origin: a slender sort of palm frond that, vibrating in the breeze, moaned disconsolately in the twilight.

A week later we sighted our destination, the ranch house of La Maporita. The pond near the corral lay golden under the sun. Several enormous dogs ran toward us barking excitedly and scattering our pack animals. A red poncho hung over the front gate, where don Rafo reined his horse in, stood in his stirrups, and gave customary notice of our approach at the top of his lungs: “Praise be to God!” “And to his Holy Mother!” responded a woman’s voice, completing the age-­old formula. “Can’t someone call off these dogs?” “They’ll be right there!” “Where’s Griselda?” “Missy’s down by the river.” Our delighted eyes took in the neatly swept patio full of poppies, oleanders, siemprevivas, and many other flowers. Around the house a grove of banana trees offered cooling shade and the steady musical whisper of its large leaves, which the wind had split into a rough confetti of rustling green strips. A strong fence of guadua canes, as thick as a man’s arm, surrounded the entire establishment for protection. Atop it strutted a glittering peacock. A decrepit old woman, neither black nor white, finally emerged from the door of the separate kitchen, drying her hands on her skirt. “Scat!” She threw a piece of fruit rind at the chickens that pecked the ground around us, scattering them. “Make yourselves at home,” she said to us. “Missy Griselda is bathing at the river. Don’t worry about the dogs, they’ve already bit all they’re going to bite.” And she returned to her chores. Finding nobody else around, we entered the sitting room of the main house, sparsely furnished with an improvised cot, two hammocks, two chairs of rawhide, three trunks, and a Singer sewing machine. Alicia, who could hardly breathe because of the heat, collapsed into a hammock and swung, pondering the extent of her exhaustion. In walked 16 · The Vortex

Griselda, barefoot, a bathing costume over her arm, a gourd with pieces of soap in her hand, a comb buried in the curly hair on the top of her head. “Excuse us!” we said. “At your service, I’m sure! Didn’t Rafael come, too? Where is he?” Stepping outside, she called to him familiarly: “Don’t tell me you forgot my dress patterns again, don Rafo! Don’t tell me you did, because you’ll have a fight on your hands!” She was dark, wiry, of medium height and ­round-­faced, with merry eyes. She laughed, revealing her broad, white smile, her hands busily squeezing drops of water from her hair onto her partially unbuttoned blouse. Turning to us, she asked: “Did they bring you coffee yet?” “Don’t go to any trouble, please . . .” “Sebastiana!” she called to the old mulata. “Where are you?” Sitting in the hammock beside Alicia, she inquired whether her diamond earrings were “legal,” and whether she had any for sale. “If you like them, they’re yours,” responded Alicia. “I’ll trade you for the sewing machine!” “Always the sharp trader!” laughed don Rafael, full of praise. “Not a bit! We’re getting rid of everything we can’t carry, is all.” And she excitedly explained that a labor recruiter by the name of Barrera had come to sign up rubber tappers to work in the Vichada region. “Like I told Fidel Franco, it’s the opportunity for us to get ahead. Barrera pays five pesos a day, plus food.” “And which Barrera is this?” inquired don Rafo. “Narciso Barrera, who’s got gold coins coming out his ears and merchandise practically to give away!” “And you believe that liar?” “Hush, don Rafo! Don’t say anything that will discourage Fidel, please! Barrera is offering a cash advance, and even so my husband can’t make up his mind to get out of here. That man loves his cattle more than his wife! And we went to Pore to get hitched good and proper, so we’re legally married.” Alicia gave me a sidelong look and smiled. “Sounds like that might be a risky plan, Griselda.” “Don Rafo! Nothing ventured, nothing gained! The offer has made everybody giddy. You think it’s not real? Why, soon enough, there’s not going to be a single cowboy left in this part of the llano. Over at the main ranch, Hato Grande, the old man’s having a hard time finding enough hands to finish the roundup. Nobody wants to do anything but dance all night! And Part One · 17

with that hussy Clarita over there, well, just imagine. I told Fidel not to stay, but he didn’t listen. He’s been gone since Monday. I’m expecting him tomorrow, though.” “You say Barrera brought a lot of stuff and sold it cheap?” “Yes, don Rafo. You might as well leave your merchandise all packed up. Everybody’s bought what they need already. And you haven’t brought my dress patterns when it’s most important? I’m going to need nice clothes!” “Oh, I reckon I’ve got something somewhere.” “God bless you!” Old Sebastiana, as shriveled as a dried fig, head and arms trembling perilously, distributed cups of coffee so strong and bitter that neither Alicia nor I could drink it. Rafo poured the contents of his cup into the saucer to speed its cooling, while Griselda went in search of a sweetener and returned with a jug of dark honey. “Thank you, señora.” “This pretty thing is your wife? You’re don Rafo’s son-­in-­law?” “Just as if I were!” “And you’re from Tolima, too?” “I am. Alicia is from Bogotá.” “Why, you look like you’re dressed for a dance, you do. What a nice dress, and look at them shoes! Did you cut that dress yourself ?” “No, but I do know a bit about dressmaking. I had the class for three years in school.” “Will you teach me? You will, won’t you? That’s why I bought the sewing machine. Just look at this nice fabric. Barrera gave it to me the day he was here. He gave some to Sebastiana, too. Where did you put it, Sebastiana?” “It’s hanging up. I’ll bring it,” replied the servant, and she left the room. Griselda produced a key and excitedly opened one of the trunks to show us several brightly colored pieces of cloth. “That’s very ordinary stuff,” sniffed don Rafo, but Griselda wasn’t listening. “Pure silk,” she insisted. “Barrera is so generous! And look at these pictures of the ­rubber-­collecting station on the Vichada River, where he wants to take us. Be honest, now. Tell me if they aren’t pretty! Barrera’s giving them to everybody. Look at them!” They were colored picture postcards. They showed several two-­story structures on an overgrown riverbank, with groups of people along the porch railings and a number of steam launches moored in front, wisps of smoke trailing from their narrow smokestacks. 18 · The Vortex

“More than a thousand men live there, and they all earn a pound sterling every day. So I’ll be cooking for them, and imagine how much I’ll get just for that! Then add what Fidel is going to earn! See those woods in the background? Right there’s where the rubber trees grow. No wonder Barrera says an opportunity like this won’t come again!” “If I weren’t so decrepit and worn out, I’d go along,” announced old Sebastiana, who had retrieved the gaudy red material that Barrera had given her. She squatted on her heels with her back against the wall and held it out to Griselda. “Here it is.” “Make a dress of that, and people will think you’ve burst into flames,” I laughed. “Better than them not looking at all, white boy,” said Sebastiana. “Go get fodder for don Rafo’s horses,” Griselda ordered the old woman, “get some red bananas if you can find them. First, though, tell Miguel to get out of that hammock. Laying around won’t cure his fevers. Tell him to bail out the canoe and go see if there are any fish on the trotline or if the piranhas stole the bait again, more likely. And get us all something to eat. Our white guests have traveled a long way today.” Then she turned her attention to Alicia. “Come on, let’s go freshen up. You’ll be sleeping in my room.” And to me, with a smirk: “I’m taking her with me! You didn’t have no reservations, right?”

I felt truly sorry at the failure of don Rafael’s business venture. Griselda was right. Everybody had already bought what they needed. Still, two days after our arrival, some men came from Hato Grande ranch, rail-­thin characters who draped their ponchos over their knees to dissimulate the alarming condition of their sweaty mounts. They called to us, from the other side of the river, to paddle over and pick them up and, thinking themselves unheard, fired Winchesters into the air. No one responded, and after a time, they forced their horses into the water and swam with them, their clothes tied in bundles on their heads. Eventually, they approached the house. They wore the normal llanero clothing of light, l­ oose-­fitting cotton under b­ road-­brimmed felt hats. They rode barefoot and held the stirrup rings with their big toes. Part One · 19

“Good morning,” they announced in melancholic tones, their utterance nearly inaudible amid the din of barking dogs. “Good morning for shooting guns?” asked Griselda. “We were calling for the canoe.” “You think I’m in the business of ferrying the likes of you?” “We came to see the merchandise . . .” “Come on in, then, but leave your nags outside the gate.” The men dismounted, tied their horses in the shade of the spreading samán tree using crude ropes made of the animals’ mane and tail, and entered the yard with their ponchos over their shoulders. Don Rafo had spread a hide on the ground to display his baubles for the llaneros’ consideration. They sank indolently onto their heels around the display. “Take a look at this belt and holster, the extra reinforcement here. And the quality of these knives. Everything first class.” “Selling quinine?” “First class. And pills for fevers and shakes.” “How much is the thread?” “Ten cents a bunch.” “How about five cents?” “Nine and we won’t argue.” The men picked through the merchandise unceremoniously and examined it almost without speaking. To see if a fabric was likely to fade, they wet their fingers with saliva and rubbed the sample vigorously. Don Rafo, the measuring stick in his hand, enumerated the virtues of each and every item. They didn’t like anything. “How about letting go of that pocketknife for two pesos and a half ?” “All right.” “I’ll pay what I said for those buttons.” “Take them.” “But throw the needle in, to put them on.” “Take it.” Each customer’s total purchase amounted to two or three pesos. Only the man with a carbine was disposed to spend more. Unknotting his handkerchief, he produced a gold coin and tapped it against the barrel of his gun. “Got change?” “Why don’t you take everything that’s left?” “Those prices are out of range,” he said, scowling. “Want to see stuff for sale cheap? Come over to the big ranch.” “Good-­bye, then.” 20 · The Vortex

The men mounted. “Friend,” said the w ­ orst-­looking of the lot, turning back as the other horses exited the gate. “Barrera sent us to take away your merchandise, so you better get it out of here. You’ve been warned, all right? Out of here! We’re not taking it, because it ain’t worth the bother. But Barrera wants no competition, hear?” “You miserable good-­for-­nothing!” I shouted, unsheathing my knife to the women’s agitation. “Do you imagine that this old man is alone?” “Under my feet, the whole wide world, but over my head, only my hat,” replied the cowboy with disdain. “I wasn’t talking to you, but if you want trouble . . . there’s enough to go around.” Spurring his pony, he tossed his purchases in my face and galloped away with his companions across the wide llano.

Frank and faithful in name and deed, Fidel Franco showed up around ten o’clock that night. Although his boat slipped soundlessly through the deep water, the dogs sensed its approach and instantly raised the alarm. “It’s Fidel. It’s Fidel,” said Griselda, ducking around our hammocks as she made her way across the sitting room. She went out in her nightgown with a dark shawl over her head and don Rafael on her heels. Alicia, alone and fearful in the darkness, began to call to me from the other room: “Arturo, did you hear that? People are arriving.” “Yes, but it’s all right, don’t get up. It’s the owner of the house.” When I went outside, still in undergarments and without a hat, I saw people carrying a torch through the banana grove. The boat’s chain made a sound as it was secured to the dock, and two armed men disembarked. “What’s going on here?” asked one, giving Griselda a peremptory hug. “Nothing. Why are you getting home at this hour of the night?” “Who are the guests in our house?” “Don Rafael and two friends of his, a man and a woman.” Franco and don Rafo embraced in greeting and led the group back toward the kitchen. “I came at this hour because I was worried. I finished bringing in some bulls this afternoon and heard, when I got to the ranch house, that Barrera had sent men here. Nobody wanted to lend me a horse, so once the partying started I borrowed their canoe. What did those men want here?” Part One · 21

“They wanted to take away my stuff,” replied don Rafo humbly. “And what happened then, Griselda?” “Nothing, because this city fellow here faced them down with his pigsticker. A real big fuss. Us women was wailing! “Go on inside,” added Griselda, a bit livid and tremulous, “and while they’re making coffee you can hang your hammock under the walkway because the city lady is sleeping in our room, with me.” “No, that cannot be,“ I insisted, stepping toward them, “Alicia and I can sleep outside.” “You don’t give the orders here,” replied Griselda, forcing a smile. “Let me introduce you to my llanero.” “Your servant, sir,” I said, responding to the man’s fraternal embrace. “Any friend of don Rafael is my friend,” he said, “and you can count on that.” “And you should see the woman that he’s got with him. Just as blushing and fine as you please. And a steady hand to cut silk, and a good way of explaining, too.” “We are at your service,” repeated Franco. He was wiry and pale, of middling height, possibly a little older than I. His surname aptly described his character, which was not so visible on the surface, his face and his tongue being less eloquent than his heart. His features were well proportioned, and his accent and way of shaking a man’s hand indicated social quality. He was a llanero not born of the llanos, but rather, one who had chosen them. “Are you originally from Antioquia?” “That’s right. I went to school in Bogotá, joined the army, got sent to the llanos, to Arauca, and deserted there because I couldn’t stomach my captain. Then I came here with Griselda, to this nice little house, and now I won’t leave for anything.” And he underlined the last part: “Not for anything!” Griselda pursed her lips bitterly and remained silent. Discovering herself to be not properly dressed, she withdrew to her room with the pretext of dressing, cupping her hand around the candle flame and carrying the light away. And she didn’t come back. In the meantime, Sebastiana revived the fire, and flames flickered out among the three large stones that flanked it, sending up occasional tongues to lick at the wire that dangled above, by which one might hang a pot or kettle. We huddled around the blinking light on low stools made of cane or alligator skulls. Franco’s companion, hardly more than a boy, looked at me with friendly interest, holding a ­double-­barreled shotgun between his bare knees. Because they were soaking wet, he rolled his trouser legs down 22 · The Vortex

over his calves bulging with knotty muscles so that the fabric would dry in the heat of the fire. His name was Antonio Correa, and he was old Sebastiana’s son. His skin was the same color as hers, and his chest and back were so square and solid that he seemed to have been carved from stone like an indigenous idol. “Mamá,” he said, scratching his head, “who sent word to the big ranch that don Rafo had merchandise for sale here?” “That’s nothing bad. That’s the way to sell.” “I know, but . . . the very day they got here?” “What do I know? Maybe it was Griselda.” Now it was Franco’s turn to purse his lips. After a short silence, he asked Sebastiana: “Old woman, how many times has Barrera been here?” “I haven’t noticed. I have enough to do minding my kitchen.” Sipping his coffee, after don Rafael recounted an incident of our journey, Franco returned to his obstinate line of questioning. What had Miguel and Jesús been doing? Had they found the pigs and fixed the gate? Had they been milking cows? How many? “They only milked two, the two whose calves are weaned already. Griselda had us turn the rest out to pasture because them mosquitoes is so bad, they’ll about kill a calf.” “Where are those two lazy good-­for-­nothings, anyway?” “Miguel got the fever and doesn’t want to do the treatment. Look, it’s five borraja leaves, but they’ve got to be pulled off the plant like this, upwards, see? If you pull them downwards, like this, they cause vomiting. He’s got what I cooked for him, but he won’t drink it. And he says he’s headed for the rubber fields. All he does is play cards with Jesús, who can’t wait to leave, either.” “Well, let them get started right now. They can take Barrera’s canoe back, and never show their faces here again. I won’t tolerate a bunch of spies in my house. Old woman, go out there right now and tell them to get their stuff and leave. Say them and me is even. They don’t owe me, and I don’t owe them.” When Sebastiana left the kitchen, don Rafael asked about things at Hato Grande. Were they as t­ opsy-­turvy as they say? “Barrera’s messed it all up. It’s not a fit place to live, anymore. Gone to wrack and ruin. Might as well torch it.” He told how work had been discontinued at the big ranch because the hired hands bought Barrera’s liquor every day and stayed permanently drunk. At Part One · 23

roundup time, they let the bulls gore the horses, got tangled up in their own lassos, and stupidly killed or crippled the animals when not themselves. They won and lost vast sums betting on horse races. Clarita was doing plenty of business, too. And nobody tried to correct the disorder or normalize the situation because everybody expected soon to become rich tapping rubber. Nobody wanted to work on the eve of becoming rich. So there weren’t any saddle horses to ride, only half-­broken colts, and no more cowboys, only celebrants. And old Zubieta, the drunk, gout-­ridden owner of Hato Grande, had become oblivious to everything that was happening. He lay sprawled in his hammock all day, letting Barrera take his money at dice as Clarita filled his mouth with dribbles of rum from her own lips. He also let Barrera’s men slaughter up to five steers every day. Sometimes they killed an animal that, once skinned, they regarded as too lean to eat, so they discarded the carcass and slaughtered another. Worst of all, the Guahibo Indians of the Guanapalo River area, who commonly killed hundreds of cattle, had recently raided the ranch outpost at Hatico, carrying away the women and killing the men. They set fire to the pasture, but the river fortunately contained the blaze. Still, one could see the glow in the sky for who knows how many nights. “What do you intend to do about it?” I asked Franco. “Defend the outpost. Get me ten riders worth their salt, with carbines and sufficient ammunition, and we won’t leave a single Indian alive.” At that moment Sebastiana returned. “They’re leaving.” “Mamá, make sure they don’t take my guitar.” “They’re asking if you want to send any message.” “Yes. They should tell old Zubieta that I quit as ranch foreman. I’ll come back when he finds some better cowboys to do the work.” We followed Sebastiana out of the kitchen. The night was dark and had begun to drizzle. In the house, Franco lay down on the makeshift cot. Outside, the hired hands he’d fired could be heard singing a llanero ditty. The splash of their paddles and the slap of the driving rain soon drowned out their harmony.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Not until the cocks began crowing did I finally drift off. Then I dreamt that Alicia was walking by herself across a dark plain toward a sinister place where a man, possibly Barrera, awaited. I crouched in the high grass and watched her, holding in my hands the young man’s 24 · The Vortex

d­ ouble-­barreled shotgun. But every time I tried to aim the firearm at Alicia’s seducer, it turned into a cold, rigid serpent in my hands. Don Rafo called from the corral, waving his hat and exclaiming: “Come with me! That’s a lost cause!” Then I saw “Missy Griselda,” arrayed in gold. She stood on a high peak, surrounded by a strange country. Below her, a stream bubbled with the white latex sap of the rubber tree. Along the flow, innumerable men lay prone to drink from it. Franco was there, standing on a pile of carbines and telling the thirsty multitude to beware what lay beyond the trees. At the base of each tree lay a dying man. My task was to collect their skulls and load them into a boat for export down a gloomy, silent river. I saw Alicia again, bedraggled and naked, fleeing from me through the leafy branches of a nocturnal forest, illuminated by colossal fireflies. I carried a hatchet in my hand and, hanging from my belt, a small metallic container—the outfit of a rubber tapper. I stopped by a p­ urple-­flowered araucaria, which resembles the rubber tree, and I began to cut the bark to release the latex sap. “Why have you opened my veins?” moaned a faint voice. “I am your Alicia, and I’ve become a parasite.” I awoke agitated and sweating at about nine o’clock. The sky had been washed blue by the night’s rainfall. A cautious breeze softened the great heat. “Here’s your breakfast, white boy,” murmured Sebastiana. “The men are riding around, and the women are at the river bathing.” As I ate, she sat on the floor and, using her teeth, commenced to adjust the links of the small neck chain that supported her saint’s medal, newly donned, as she explained, to enlist its miraculous powers. Hopefully it would persuade her son Antonio to take her with him to the rubber fields. “And I put the heart of a piapoco bird in his coffee, too. The way that works is, he can go wherever he wants, but when he hears a piapoco sing, he’ll feel sad and woebegone and remember his home place and the little house where he was born. And if he don’t come back, he’ll die of a broken heart.” By her calculation, the saint’s medal would reinforce this effect if hung around the neck of a departing family member. “So Antonio’s headed for Vichada, too?” “Who knows? Franco don’t want to pull up roots, but his wife’s got her heart set on going. Antonio will do whatever the boss says.” “Why did those two fellows have to leave last night?” “The boss done had enough of them, I reckon. He’s suspicious. Jesús went to Hato Grande the day you got here to tell Barrera not to come around. That’s all. But the man got suspicious and sent them away.” Part One · 25

“Does Barrera come around frequently?” “I don’t know. If he chats with Griselda, it’s down by the river, because she’s always down there in the canoe, seems like, checking the trotline. Barrera’s got more to show than the boss. Barrera is an opportunity, let’s say. But don Fidel’s got a temper, and Griselda is scared of him because of what happened in Arauca. Somebody whispered that his captain was after her, so the boss waited for him and . . . one, two . . .” The old woman’s hand stabbed the air to illustrate her words, but we were interrupted, just at that moment, by the appearance of an animated trio consisting in Alicia, Griselda, and an elegant gentleman in a white suit, high boots, and gray felt hat. “Here’s Barrera, “ said Sebastiana. “You wanted to meet him, right?”

“Kind sir,” the man exclaimed, bowing deeply, “doubly fortunate am I to find myself, unexpectedly, at the feet of a husband so worthy of his lovely wife.” And without waiting for a better excuse, he kissed the hand of Alicia right in front of me. Shaking mine, he extended his flattery: “Praise be to the creator of such precious stanzas, a balm to my soul they were, during my stay in Brazil, making me sigh with nostalgia for Colombia. To bind errant sons to their native land, that is the privilege of true poets! I have asked much of Fortune, but I never dared imagine that one day I’d have the honor of declaring to you, face-­to-­face, my sincerest admiration.” Although I had braced myself against this man, I confess that I was sensitive to his adulation. His words tempered my annoyance at his gallantry toward the lovely Alicia. Barrera apologized for entering the house in his riding boots, and after inquiring about the health of its owner, he begged me to accept a glass of Scotch. I had already noticed that Griselda had the bottle in her hand. When Sebastiana set out some cups and Barrera leaned over to fill them with whiskey, I observed that he wore a ­nickel-­plated revolver at his belt and that the bottle was not full. Alicia caught my eye, indicating that she did not want to drink. “Have another drink, señora! You already saw how mild it is!” “What?” I frowned at Alicia. “You’ve been drinking, too?” “Señor Barrera insisted. And he gave me this bottle of perfume,” she mumbled, producing it from wherever she had it hidden. “An insignificant little gift. Please excuse it. I brought it especially . . .” 26 · The Vortex

“But not especially for my wife. Possibly for Griselda. Or had the three of you already met?” “Absolutely not, Señor Cova. My happiness had not soared to that height.” Alicia and Griselda blushed. “I found out that you were here,” he clarified, “only last night from a couple of cowhands who appeared at the ranch. I was immensely sorry to learn that six total scoundrels had pretended to represent me and attempted to abscond in my name with your merchandise. So at dawn I came in haste to protest against their dastardly act. The whiskey and the perfume are but humble offerings, intended to corroborate the fervent esteem that I profess toward the people of this house.” “Did you hear that, Alicia? Give the bottle of perfume to Griselda.” “Aren’t you people of this house, too?” asked Griselda in a hurt tone. “I naturally regard you as such,” continued Barrera, “because so charming a couple must always seem ‘of the house’ within a few days of arriving anywhere.” Undeterred by my aggressive attitude, the fellow took a different tack. With the things that went on these days in Casanare, it was sad to think what might become of that privileged land, cradle of such honest, hospitable, and industrious folk. But one simply could not live with the Venezuelan refugees who infested everything like a cloud of locusts. How he had suffered from the hordes of Venezuelan volunteers who responded to his recruitment! They all claimed to be fleeing political persecution, of course, but they were nothing more, in fact, than common criminals, felons who had escaped from the penitentiary. One couldn’t refuse outright to hire them, however, for fear of a violent reaction. Undoubtedly, the six men who had tried to take don Rafael’s merchandise were of precisely this ilk. No, the rubber company of Vichada could never repay him adequately for all the trouble he’d had. True, he had to recognize that the company did treat him well in some respects. First, they charged him with taking a large shipment of rubber to Brazil, residence of the company’s primary stockholders. The company had even wanted him to supervise further rubber collection in Vichada, a distinct honor that he had modestly declined. Ah, but had he known then that he would meet, in the wilderness, such a man as myself ! In fact, if I had a candidate for the job right now, it would be his distinct pleasure to propose it to the company’s directors. And if that candidate were to accompany him to Vichada, well, he could be certain of a positive outcome . . . “Señor Barrera,” I interrupted, “I’d never heard of a company as big as yours in Vichada.” Part One · 27

“Oh no, it’s not mine. I am merely an employee who earns two thousand pounds sterling a year, plus expenses.” He rested his brazen eyes on my face, mopped his own with the silk handkerchief, fondled the knot of his necktie, and took his leave, repeatedly leaving his regards to those who were absent and reiterating his disgust at the actions of the six ill-­mannered intruders who had molested us. He intended to return another day to deliver those sentiments in person to the absent don Rafo. Griselda walked with him to the river, and she stayed there longer than it normally takes to say good-­bye. “Where did that fellow come from?” I said brusquely to Alicia as soon as we were alone. “He came on horseback to the other side of the river, and Griselda brought him across in the canoe.” “Had you ever seen him before?” “No.” “Are you interested in him?” “No.” “Are you going to accept the perfume?” “No.” Grabbing the small bottle from Alicia’s apron pocket, I broke it on the stones of the patio, almost at the feet of Griselda, just back from the river. “Have you gone crazy?” she said.

A bit surprised and a bit humiliated, Alicia opened the sewing machine and began to sew. There were moments when one heard only the sound of the pedals and the chattering of the parrot on its perch. Griselda, smiling and clever and thinking it better not to leave us alone, made conversation. “That Barrera is so funny! He’s convinced he needs some emeralds, and he’s got his eyes on the ones in my earrings. I bet he’d steal them right off my head!” “Careful you don’t lose your head,” I remarked, with a laugh to underline the double meaning. “Huh? Better not fuss at me!” I went out to the corral, without staying to hear Griselda’s alarmed excuses and explanations. 28 · The Vortex

Climbing atop the heavy fence that surrounds the corral to vent my frustration at the sun, I saw a dark, undulating cloud of dust rise over the palms on the horizon. Then I saw the silhouette of a horseman flying headlong over the grassy waves of the llano, turning abruptly this way and that and twirling his lasso. The ground shook with the pounding of a great many hooves, and several other riders appeared before I saw the herd of horses that they had gathered for the roundup. Occasionally, a half-­wild colt, mad with youth, flung itself away from the herd, bucking playfully. Now I could clearly hear the voices of the riders calling for us to open the gate of the corral. I hardly had time to open it before the leading animals thundered into the enclosure and began to mill around nervously, huffing and puffing. Franco, don Rafael, and Sebastiana’s boy Antonio Correa dismounted their sweaty, winded mounts, which shook their heads and rubbed them roughly against the wall of the corral. “That looks like fun. Why didn’t you invite me?” “Early to bed, early to rise, my friend! We’ll see how you throw a lasso some other time.” The men solidly barred the corral gate by pushing a number of long poles across it from side to side, as the women approached to peer through. Inside, the herd of mares and colts whirled in an anxious circle, searching for a way out of the enclosure. Alicia, holding a piece of sewing in her hand, squealed with excitement at the confusion of pelting hooves, glistening flanks, and whipping manes and tails. The air was full of breathless commentaries—that’s the one I want, no, that one—while the twitching muscles, rebellious whinnies, and churning mud created a sensation of raw power. Antonio Correa was beside himself. “We got him! See? The big black bronco with white feet! Everybody’s been afraid to lay hands on him before now. Now his time has come.” “Mulato,” recommended the boy’s mother, “you better be careful!” Stimulated by our presence, the young man told Alicia that he planned to tame the bronco in her honor, right after lunch. “Smells like a woman,” he said, his nostrils dilating as if gathering pheromones from all those recently vented outside the house. All he wanted to eat was a piece of meat and a fistful of fried plantains. He wet his tongue with a drop of bitter coffee, grabbed his riding gear, and was out the door, disregarding old Sebastiana’s worried sounds, to wait for us at the corral. Part One · 29

We did not want much to eat, either, excited by the coming spectacle. Alicia said a quick, silent prayer for the boy, hoping to call down a measure of divine protection. Sebastiana prayed, “Don’t let that animal kill my nappy head, please.” We took out the ropes braided of rawhide and the powerful hobbles, half a meter long with a ring at each end, to fasten on the black horse’s feet. The black horse had avoided being lassoed, meanwhile, by keeping its head down and staying in the middle of the tumult that still filled the corral. Franco therefore had all the horses except the black one let out of the corral into a connecting enclosure. Finding itself alone, the animal reared and put its forefeet up on the fence surrounding the corral, allowing Antonio to throw his lasso around its neck. The animal lowered its head and gave a series of great leaps around the botalón, a high forked pole, eight inches thick, to which the lasso bound it ever more tightly. Antonio coaxed the bronco round and round the botalón. The heavy rope hummed taut with the force of the untamed beast, and the friction, where the rope wound around the botalón, was so intense that it made the wood smoke. Finally wound tight, the horse hung from the fork with its tongue out, strangling itself in anguished hiccups before finally crashing to the ground, its legs jerking, only semiconscious. Franco sat on the animal’s flank and, grabbing its ears, twisted its proud neck to immobilize it, while Antonio swiftly fastened on a headstall, hobbled its feet, and tied a rope to its tail. The poor thing continued to thrash in the dirt as several men pulled it out of the corral by its tail. Once outside, they allowed it to rise and covered its eyes. For the first time, the stallion felt a saddle on its once indomitable back. During the tussle, its mares were released and made for the open llano. Facing the plain, the stallion trembled with distress and fury. The horsebreaker shouted, as he prepared to remove the hobbles: “Mamá, bring my saint’s medal.” Both Franco and don Rafael called for their mounts, but Antonio wanted to do it all alone. He mounted. “No, no. Stay behind. If he tries to roll over on me, don’t let him.” Then, amid Sebastiana’s excited shouting, he dangled the saint’s medal around his neck, crossed himself, and uncovered the horse’s eyes. Not a wild mule, when the jaguar springs onto its neck; not a manatee, when the harpoon stabs home; not a fighting bull, when tormented with fluttering banderillas—nothing could react more violently than did the black stallion at the first stinging blow of Antonio’s whip. With a shudder30 · The Vortex

ing, equine roar, it launched itself onto the llano, its hooves churning earth and air, speeding away, as we watched amazed. Two ­would-­be assistants ran ineffectually behind, waving their ponchos. In tremendous leaps, the new Pegasus flew back and forth across the grassland, occasionally whirling like a dust devil, its rider pitched this way and that but firmly stuck on its back. Eventually, the uneven movements of the rider’s white shirt were all that could be clearly discerned in the distance. At the end of the afternoon, horse and rider returned. The palms greeted them with a nodding, nervous flutter of fronds. The black stallion was exhausted, broken in spirit, covered with sweat, largely unresponsive to spur or whip. Without bothering to cover its eyes, but not without a few blows and kicks for good measure, the men unsaddled the animal and left it hobbled for the night, alone, silent, and motionless on the edge of the plain. Excited abrazos greeted Antonio Correa. Sebastiana was beside herself with pride and relief. “How about my boy, now? How about him?” “We owe it all to the mulato,” explained Franco. “We went out for the mares, and just look what happened. We got a stallion out of it! It’s mine, but at your disposal, whenever.” As darkness descended and a full moon rose, the former monarch of the plains, humbled and hurting, bid his kingdom farewell with a desolate whinny.

I confess, contritely, that I did something bad that week. For some reason, I made love to “Missy Griselda,” with fabulous success. While Alicia had her fevers, Griselda and I lavished tender care on her. My enthusiasm stemmed, as I later reflected, more from interest in the nurse than concern for the patient. Griselda passed close beside my hammock one day, and I reached with an insinuating hand to squeeze her thigh. She made a fist, as if about to punch me, glanced in the direction of sleeping Alicia, and tickled my ribs forcefully with her other hand. “Rascal! I knew you were.” As she leaned over me, her earrings swung forward onto her cheeks and dangled in my face. “These are the emeralds that Barrera wanted?” “Yes, but I’ll let you have them instead.” “How can I get them off you?” Part One · 31

“Like this,” she said, biting my ear quite hard, and disappeared, choking with laughter, only to reappear a second later, with a sly finger between her lips and an urgent plea. “My man can’t find out! Or your woman! Hear?” Loyalty triumphed over lust, however. I disdained to submit any further to temptation. I was jaded to the allure of voluptuous delights, having enjoyed so many in the past. Was I really going to dishonor a friend by seducing his wife, especially when she was no more to me than a random female, and a vulgar one at that? What really drove my new resolve was another idea. Alicia’s indifference toward me had changed, now, into lightly veiled disdain. Now I began to fall in love with her, even idolize her. Somehow, I’d been blind to her superiority before now. It’s true that she isn’t beautiful, but when she passes by, men smile. Another of her charms, one that I adored, was her limpid gaze, her hauteur alloyed with melancholy. She had been burned, it proclaimed, by bad luck. Her voice had become a soft, expressive whisper; her eyelashes closed over her dark, a­ lmond-­shaped eyes to reply in the affirmative. Her pale skin had darkened a bit during our time in the llanos, and she seemed both fleshier and taller than before. When she smiled, her dimples stood out more. When I first met her, she had seemed a passionate and impulsive child. Then I’d watched her bear the bad news of her pregnancy seriously, with dignity. When I pushed her to the supreme revelation, that of her delicate state, she reacted almost with anger. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ?” When she sat at the sewing machine, I lay in a hammock nearby and pretended not to watch her, clothed in ­lighted-­colored cotton, showing a bit of cleavage, her hair negligently arrayed, with its blue butterfly bow that seemed to move its wings when she turned her head to watch the needle. Her coldness filled me with impatience, to the point that I demanded, more than once: “Do you hear me talking to you?” Dying to find the reason for her withdrawal, I wondered if it might be jealousy, and I made an allusion to Griselda, with whom she had become close. The two not infrequently cried together. “What does Griselda have to say about me?” “That Barrera is better.” “What? How does she mean?” “I don’t know.”

32 · The Vortex

This revelation definitively put Franco’s honor out of danger, because Griselda repulsed me from that moment on. “Better because he’s after her and I’m not?” “I don’t know.” “And what if I went after her?” “That’s up to you.” “Alicia, have you seen something?” “What? Why do you think everybody’s in love with you?” For an instant, my wounded pride suggested that I show her the bite mark Griselda had left on me and ask her if she could imagine how I got it. Don Rafael appeared in the doorway.

He had just returned from the big ranch, where he had gone early in the morning with news of the mares we’d gathered during the roundup. Franco and Griselda had gone with him and would be back in the afternoon. Rafael had returned ahead of them, taking advantage of the canoe, to consult me and, hopefully, get my approval for a business proposition. Old Zubieta was offering us an excellent deal—a thousand bulls or more that ran loose on his vast property—at a very low price, as long as we caught them ourselves. Furthermore, we could pay him after the bulls were driven to market, but Zubieta did require guarantees and collateral. Franco was willing to put everything he owned on the line, but he needed partners. This was our big chance; the profits would be spectacular. “Whatever you want,” I told don Rafo, joyfully, and added to Alicia, hugging her with both arms: “The money will be for you!” “I’ll leave you some horses and go, meanwhile, to Arauca, where I’ll collect the money that people there owe me,” said don Rafo. “I ought to get something like a thousand pesos, which will pay for part of our costs, hired hands and such. And we’ll get more when Zubieta decides to bring Franco back as foreman, which he is sure to do now that work has been paralyzed because of the cowboys’ misbehavior.” “I’ve got thirty pounds sterling in my pocket, take them, here they are! I’m keeping only a bit for Alicia’s expenses and what we owe Fidel for our stay in his house.” “Fine. I’ll leave in three days’ time and be back by the middle of next month, before the big rains. The rainy season isn’t far off. We will be in

Part One · 33

Villavicencio with the bulls by the end of June, and then . . . to Bogotá! To Bogotá!” When Alicia and don Rafael went outside, my fantasies spread their wings. I envisioned myself back among my university classmates, telling of my adventures in Casanare, exaggerating my sudden enrichment, seeing them congratulate me with surprise and envy on their faces. I would invite them all to dine at my house because by then I’d have one, already paid in full, with a garden just outside the window of my study. I’d assemble them there to hear me read my latest poems. Alicia would have to excuse herself frequently to attend to the wails of our little one, named Rafael, in memory of our traveling companion. My family would finally move to Bogotá, and although my stern parents would no doubt maintain their disapproval of my marriage, I’d wear them down by sending the nanny to their house with little Rafael at every opportunity. At first, they’d refuse to look at him, but my sisters would accept, and they’d lift up the baby and say, “He looks just like Arturo.” And then my mother would go, bathed in tears, and fondle the little one blissfully, calling to my father to come see the baby, and the unbending old man would withdraw to his bedroom, adamant in his refusal but trembling with emotion. Little by little, my literary success would win them over, eventually resulting in a full pardon. I ought more to be pitied than censured, my mother would say. After my graduation from the university, all would be forgotten. Even my former girlfriends, intrigued by my new behavior, would divert attention from my past, explaining everything with this phrase: “Arturo is Arturo!” “Come here, you dreamer, you! And you, Alicia!” Don Rafo interrupted my reverie, inviting me to drink the last of his brandy, as he lightened his saddlebags for the journey that lay ahead. “Here’s to fortune, and to love!” How deluded. We might as well have toasted to suffering and death.

For a few days, I thought of nothing but riches. So obsessed did I become with the idea of great wealth that I imagined myself already a magnate, visiting Casanare for the purpose of promoting economic activities on the llanos. I took even Alicia’s heedlessness as a sign of supreme confidence in the future based on abundance in the present. True, she continued to be 34 · The Vortex

hermetic and moody, but I rationalized that as well. Wasn’t that just like a young lady of leisure? When Fidel Franco informed me that our business contract had been finalized, I wasn’t a bit impressed. It was as though the man paid to administer my affairs was merely reporting on his efficient execution of my instructions. “Franco, this is going to work out perfectly. And, just in case, my copious resources will remediate any shortfall.” Then Fidel inquired, for the first time, about the object of my stay on the llanos. Immediately wondering whether my traveling companion might have committed some indiscretion, I replied: “You haven’t talked about that with don Rafael?” And I added, following his negative response: “I’ve a wish to travel, nothing more! I had the idea of going to Arauca, then down the Orinoco River to the sea, and on to Europe. But poor Alicia is having such a hard time that I’m at my wit’s end. And besides, this business venture doesn’t sound bad at all. I think it’s going to pay off.” “Well, I’m sorry that silly Griselda is trying to turn your lady into a seamstress or something.” “Don’t worry. Alicia finds it amusing to apply what she learned in her classes. At home, if she’s not embroidering, she’s painting, making lace, or playing the piano.” “I’ve been wondering, did don Rafael leave those horses with you?” “See why I regard him so highly? My best horse got stolen, with saddle, bridle, and everything.” “Yes, don Rafael told me. There are still some good ones, though.” “Not too good. The saddle horses are all right, though.” “Old Zubieta is going to be pleased, anyway. I can’t figure out why that suspicious old coot is offering us so much credit. Probably he’s just trying to get ahead of Barrera. I sure never saw him sell bulls that way. ‘I ain’t got nothing to sell,’ he used to say. ‘I’ve only got five critters left.’ To get him to sell, you had to deposit the cash with him ahead of time, for safekeeping, supposedly. One time he got a deposit from a fellow from Sogamoso, a sharp trader who’d been around and knew a thing or two. The guy even spent several days drinking with Zubieta, becoming best buddies, don’t you know. And then, when it came time to take the animals, the old man spread his poncho on the ground outside the corral and, opening the bag of deposited coins, told the fellow from Sogamoso: ‘Toss a gold coin on my poncho for each bull that leaves the gate, so I can see, because I’m not too good with Part One · 35

numbers.’ The coins soon ran out, the guy acted surprised. ‘I’m a little short,’ he pleaded. ‘Let me have the rest on credit.’ But no way! ‘You’re not so short on money, I’m just long on bulls, is all,’ guffawed Zubieta.” And with that, the old man had gathered up his p­ oncho-­load of gold and left. I entertained the anecdote with a confident smile. “Franco,” I said, punching him playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t be surprised! The old man knows what he’s doing, offering us credit, I mean. He must have heard my name!”

“Hey, weathercock, which way you pointing today?” “Good morning, Griselda, but listen, that’s too familiar a way to talk to me.” “Too familiar, is it? Has the big business deal got you all puffed up, weathercock? For big money, the place to go is pure Vichada. Take me there! I want to go with you!” She tried to embrace me, but my elbow pushed her away. Surprised, Griselda hesitated, then: “I know what it is! My husband puts you off !” “You’re the one who puts me off !” “You sorry fool! Miss Alicia don’t know nothing about us, but she did tell me not to believe anything you say!” “She told you what? She told you what?” “El llanero es sincero, as they say, but I can’t trust a big-­city boy like you, from Bogotá.” I blanched with fury and stepped into the next room. “Alicia, I disapprove of your familiarity with Griselda. Her vulgarity may be contagious. I prefer that you do not continue to sleep in her bedroom.” “Now you want me to leave her alone for you? You won’t respect Franco even under his own roof ?” “What? So now your idiotic jealousy is back?” I left Alicia to weep and went to the outbuildings where the hired hands spent their time. Sebastiana was mending the mulato Antonio’s shirt while he awaited bare-­chested, his seminude body stretched on a cowhide on the ground, his head reclining on his hands. “Catch a breeze, white boy,” said the old woman, “while I take care of curly here. These string hammocks are the thing today. Heat’s going to bring rain, too.” 36 · The Vortex

I climbed into a hammock but tried in vain to sleep. One hen on the roof beams annoyed me with her insistent clucking, while the others slumped in the shade with their beaks open, panting and ignoring the rooster that, despite the heat, made passes at them. Sebastiana shooed the chickens. “Scat! Blasted birds won’t let anyone sleep.” “Mulata, where are you from?” “From right where I am.” “You’re Colombiana?” “Llanera, more than Colombiana, born over toward Manare. The whole llano is my country, so pretty and so wide, over in Venezuela, too. What more country do I need? As they say, no need to go looking for what you ain’t lost!” “And who’s your father?” I asked Antonio. “My mother’s the one who knows.” “Son, just be glad you were born.” With a sympathetic smile I asked: “Mulato, are you headed for the Vichada River?” “I was, but the boss found out and gave me a ­talking-­to. Because they say it’s all jungle and big trees there, where horses and cattle can’t go, and what’s that good for? That ain’t for a llanero. I like my liberty and the open plain.” “The woods is for Indians,” added his mother. “They don’t mind the llanos, though,” insisted Antonio, “to judge by the damage they do. Naked savages! Christians have to work hard to lasso a bull, with a horse that’s willing and knows its part, but somehow the savages do it chasing after them on foot, and they’ll bring down maybe forty animals, ­lickety-­split, in a single day, and eat maybe one of them, leaving the rest as carrion. And they are uppity with people, too. Look at what happened to old Jaspe, may he rest in peace, when they ambushed him, jumping out of the brush almost under his horse. He took off, but not fast enough. And hollering at them didn’t do nothing. Imagine, unarmed, with ­twenty-­some savages shooting arrows all over the place.” His mother, tightening the handkerchief that she wore around her head, explained: “Jaspe and his cowboys used to hunt the Indians with dogs, and when they killed one, they’d light a fire and pretend to roast and eat him so that the other Indians, who’d be watching from not too far away, would see and get scared.” “Mamá, you know that the savages killed his family, and since there ain’t no government out here, he had to take matters into his own hands. You Part One · 37

saw what happened over at Hatico, where they killed all the Christians and the ruins is still smoking.” To me he added: “We better make plans to go kill us some savages.” “No!” I said. “You can’t hunt them like animals. That’s inhumane.” “Well, they wouldn’t mind doing the same to you!” “Don’t contradict the white boy, mulato! He knows a whole lot more than you do. Instead, offer him a chew of tobacco, why don’t you?” “No thanks. I don’t chew.” “There’s your shirt, all mended,” the old woman said to her son, throwing it to him. “Now don’t rip it up in the brush when you go for the venga venga. Did you bring it already? No? Well, go! How long ago did they ask you for it?” “Give me some coffee, and then I’ll go.” “What’s venga venga?” “Something that Missy Griselda wants. It’s the bark of a tree for a love potion.”

My moodiness has subjected me to various nervous crises, in which logic and my brain sue for divorce. In spite of my physical exuberance, my overactive imagination constantly saps my strength, a chronic problem, because the visions are unremitting, even during sleep. A vision achieves maximum clarity and potency, and then, within minutes, it degenerates into its opposite. Listening to music, my spirit soars to heights of unbridled enthusiasm only to plunge, next, into the depths of a most refined melancholy. Rage slips easily into listlessness; prudence slides irremediably into reflexive impulsiveness. My psychic depths behave like the waters of a bay; high and low tides succeed one another with inexorable intermittence. My body reacts poorly to the stimulations offered by alcohol. Drink dulls the pain, but the few times that I ever got really drunk, it was from idleness or curiosity, to kill my boredom or to experience the overpowering sensations that turn drinkers into beasts. The day when don Rafo said good-­bye to us, I felt a vague foreboding, as if I knew it was forever. I shared the enthusiasm of the venture that he was about to undertake in the name of us all, the beginnings of our future prosperity. And yet, just as mists climb the sides of lofty peaks, vapors of sadness softly enwreathed my heavy heart, moistened my eyes, and impelled me to drink deeply of our farewell libations. 38 · The Vortex

Thus, I recovered my manic animation only to confront the depressing echoes of Alicia’s sobbing voice, as she took leave of don Rafael with a final, desperate embrace: “Now I’ll really be lost in the desert!” I understood that “the desert” had something to do with me. As I remember, Franco and Correa were to accompany don Rafo on the first leg of the journey to protect him from Barrera’s potential reprisal. Then they were to recruit cowboys and acquire remounts to help us round up the bulls, returning to La Maporita after no more than a week. “I leave my house in your hands,” Franco said to me. I nodded reluctantly and with secret resentment. Why did they never take me along when there was work to be done? Did they suppose themselves to be more manly than I? They might be more practiced than I, and perhaps therefore more skillful, but they were not more fiery nor more audacious! As I watched them ride away, I felt a sudden hardness toward them all, and, drunk out of my mind, I almost shouted that he who cares for two women sleeps with both! I went into Alicia’s room to console her. She lay facedown on her cot, hiccupping and tearful. I leaned down to caress her, and she responded merely by reaching down to extend her dress over her bare calves. Then she brusquely rejected me: “Get out of here. The last thing I need is to see you drunk.” So I turned and, in the presence of Alicia, put my arm around Griselda. “You still like me, though, don’t you? Isn’t it true that I’ve only had two drinks?” “And if you’d had them with quinine, you wouldn’t be feverish.” “Thank you, sweetheart. Whatever you say.” Undoubtedly, when Griselda then went to the kitchen with the bottle, she put some venga venga in it. But I fell asleep at Alicia’s feet. And I didn’t drink any more that day.

I awoke with frayed nerves and a heavy heart, ill-­disposed toward the world and everyone in it. Miguel had appeared among the outbuildings of La Maporita with a spirited colt that champed impatiently at the bit. He was talking with Sebastiana. “I’ve come to get my fighting cock, and to see if Antonio will lend me his guitar.” Part One · 39

“The white man is in charge here now. Get his permission to take the rooster. Antonio isn’t here, so I can’t lend his guitar.” Miguel dismounted and approached me timidly: “The rooster is mine. The big cockfights are coming up, and I want to start getting him ready. If it’s all right, I’ll wait for dusk and just take him off the roost.” It all seemed suspicious to me. “Barrera didn’t send any message?” “Not for you.” “For whom, then?” “Not for anybody.” “Who sold you that saddle?” I asked him, recognizing on Miguel’s horse the one stolen from me in Villavicencio. “Barrera bought it from someone who showed up a couple of weeks ago. Said he was selling it because a snake killed his horse.” “And what’s his name?” “I didn’t see him. I just heard about it.” “And you normally ride on Barrera’s saddle, do you?” I roared, grabbing hold of the scoundrel. “If you don’t tell me where he is, where he’s hiding right now, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life! But if you tell the truth, I’ll give you the rooster, the guitar, and two pounds sterling.” “Let go of me, so they won’t know I confessed.” I took him inside the corral, where we couldn’t be seen, and he said: “Barrera’s hiding in the thicket on the other side of the water because he didn’t see a red poncho hung over the front gate. So he sent me ahead, to see who’s here. If the coast is clear, I’m supposed to unsaddle and wait for dark, then play the guitar. That’s the signal for him to come. But I haven’t been able to talk to the woman.” “Don’t tell her anything.” I had him unsaddle the horse. Night was already falling. Only the bloody stain of vanishing twilight lingered along the horizon. Old Sebastiana emerged from the kitchen carrying a kerosene lamp. The other women could be heard saying a rosary together, a lugubrious mumble. I left Miguel waiting while I stepped into Antonio’s little room to get the guitar. In the darkness, I lifted his instrument off its hook on the wall and also grabbed his ­double-­barreled shotgun. When the rosary was finished, now ­empty-­handed, I went to Griselda: “There’s a man outside who wants to talk to you.” “Is it Miguel, coming for the guitar?” 40 · The Vortex

“Yes. Why don’t you take it to him? It’s over there, in that corner.” When “Missy Griselda” went out, I searched Alicia’s eyes for any sign of complicity, but in vain. She felt tired and wanted to go to bed early. “Don’t you want to watch the moon come up?” proposed Sebastiana. “No,” I replied. “I’ll call you when it’s time.” I concealed the bottle of liquor under my poncho, and when Griselda reentered the house, I disguised my tragic purpose with the most serene expression: “Sebastiana can sleep in here tonight, because I’m going to sling my hammock outside. I could use some fresh air.” “Now that’s a good idea,” said the older woman. “Hard to sleep when it’s as hot as tonight is, ain’t it?” “Leave the door open when you go out,” said her employer. Her words gave me a malignant satisfaction. I bid the women good night, saying, with emphasis: “Miguel said he would sing me a song or two. Then I’m going straight to sleep.” They soon extinguished the kerosene lamp.

Once outside, I looked first for the dogs. Calling them in a low voice, I checked all around with great care. Nothing. Fortunately, they seemed to have left with our travelers. The glow of Miguel’s cigar eventually led me back to the outbuildings. “Want a drink, Miguelito?” “That rum is bitter,” he replied, and spat on the ground as he returned the bottle after taking a swallow. “Tell me, who was Barrera coming here to meet?” “I’m not sure.” “Both women?” “Could be.” My heart began to pound in my chest like the clapper of a bell. My voice sounded strangled and raspy in my throat. “Is Barrera a generous gentleman?” “Generous? He’s stingy as can be! He says he’ll advance whatever merchandise you want, on credit, and he makes you sign his account book. Then gives you practically nothing and says you’ll get the rest later, in Vichada. I don’t trust him.” Part One · 41

“Did he give you money to come here? “Five pesos, and he made me sign a receipt for ten. He promised me some new clothes, and I haven’t seen them. Same thing with everybody. A bunch has gone off to San Pedro de Arimena to get some boats together. There’s practically nobody at Hato Grande now. Even Jesús is gone. Old man Zubieta sent him to Orocué with a message for the authorities. “All right. Take the guitar and sing.” “It’s still early.” We waited for almost another hour, as the idea of Alicia’s unfaithfulness sent waves of anger through me. I bit my hands to keep from bursting into sobs. “You planning to kill Barrera?” “Oh no, I just want to know what he came for.” “What if it was to see your girlfriend?” “Not even then.” “But that would be pretty bad for you.” “Do you think I should kill him?” “That’s your business. Just don’t kill me by mistake. And hide over there, because I’m going to sing now.” I did as he said, and after a moment he added, before starting to play: “Don’t drink any more, and aim carefully, please.” Time passed, and tentative silver reflections flickered on leaves in the banana grove, gradually spreading and intensifying, to bathe the immensity of the llano in moonlight. The melancholy notes of the guitar rose up, followed by the singer’s voice: The hawk has taken the poor dove, And left a trail of drops of blood. Every iota of my attention went to my eyes as I leveled the shotgun and gazed along its barrel toward the river, then toward the corral, then in every other direction. Atop one of the outbuildings, a turkey wounded the night with its raucous cries. Out on the plains somewhere, the dogs howled. The hawk has taken the poor dove, And left a trail of drops of blood. Light appeared in the house, as the women relit the kerosene lamp. Sebastiana emerged from the doorway like a wandering spirit:

42 · The Vortex

“Hush, Miguel! Missy Griselda says to let a body sleep!” The singer fell silent and found me in the darkness. “I forgot to tell you. I’m supposed to take the canoe to the other side and pick him up, so I’m going. Remember, when we come back, aim at the one in front, okay? If you get him, I’ll throw him to the alligators, and that will be that.” I watched him paddle in the moonlight, to the other bank, shrouded in moon shadows from the overhanging trees, until I could perceive only an occasional movement of his paddle, glinting like a scimitar. Then it, too, was gone. I waited almost until dawn, and no one returned. God knows what happened to him.

At the break of day, I saddled Miguel’s horse and put his shotgun back on the rafters. Griselda moved around with a bucket, watering flowers and watching me uneasily. “What are you doing?” “I’m waiting for Barrera. He’s on the other side of the river.” “That’s foolishness!” “We’ll see. How much do I owe you for our stay, Missy Griselda?” “What are you talking about?” “Just what you’re hearing. Your house is not a place for decent people. Best you spend more time in your own house and less parading around out there in the high grass. “Watch your lip, man. You’re drunk.” “Not from the liquor Barrera brought you.” “As if he’d brought it to me!” “Are you saying it was for Alicia?” “You can’t force Alicia to love you, and you can’t force her to follow you, neither. A person don’t choose who they love. When the wind changes, you just got to let it blow.” In reply, I took a long drink from the bottle and retrieved the shotgun. Griselda fled the room. I pushed the door open. Alicia, half dressed, was sitting on her cot. “Good heavens, Arturo!” “I’m going to kill Barrera right in front of you!”

Part One · 43

“How could you do such a thing?” “Don’t cry! Are you worried about the dead man already?” “Good God. Help! What’s going on?” “I’m going to kill him! Kill him dead! And then you’re next, and me, and everybody! I’m not crazy. And don’t say I’m drunk. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. It isn’t true. Here, feel how my head is burning. Where are you? Feel!” Sebastiana and Griselda did their best to restrain me. “Easy does it, man. It’s me,” said Griselda. “Don’t you recognize me?” They tumbled me into a hammock and tried to tie it shut with me inside, but my kicking boots tore the hammock apart. I seized hold of Griselda’s hair and dragged her outside. “Facilitator!” I struck her in the face, hard enough to draw blood. Then, in my raging delirium, I sat on the ground and started to laugh. I became amused at how the yard spun around me, buzzing loudly. The breeze cooled my boiling brain. “That’s it! Yes, keep spinning, because I’m crazy!” Convinced that I had become an eagle, I spread my arms and felt myself soaring in the wind, over plains and palms. I wanted to swoop down and lift Alicia in my talons, carrying her up to the clouds, away from Barrera and out of harm’s way. And I flew so high that my wings beat against the blue sky, and the sun ignited my hair. I inhaled the blazing splendor. When my fever reached a crisis, I tried to walk, but I felt the earth slide under my feet in the opposite direction. Bracing myself on the wall, I entered the empty house. They had all run away! I felt thirsty, and I raised the bottle for another gulp. I picked up the shotgun and pressed its double barrels against my burning cheeks, to cool them. Devastated because Alicia had abandoned me, I started to cry. Then I made a loud speech: “It doesn’t matter that you’ve left me! I’m a rich man, after all! I don’t want a thing to do with you—not with you, or with your kid, or anybody. You know, I hope the bastard’s born dead. He’s probably no son of mine, anyway. Bottom line, you can go off with anybody you want, bitch. That’s what you are!” Then I fired off a few shots. “Where’s Franco, that he doesn’t come to defend his woman? Here I am! Who wants a piece of me? Come on! First man that tries anything, I’ll kill him! Except Barrera. Barrera, no . . . so that Alicia can go away with him. . . . In fact, I’ll trade her to Barrera for another bottle of brandy. That’s what she’s worth, one bottle of booze!” 44 · The Vortex

And, grabbing the bottle that I already had, I slung the shotgun across my back and mounted my steed, which leapt ahead at a gallop into the high brush as I shouted hoarsely, diabolically, at the top of my lungs: “Barrera and rum!”

Half an hour later, I arrived at the Hato Grande ranch house. Its inhabitants saw me from across the river and guided me with shouts and hand signals to the shallow crossing. My horse splashed through the ford and into the gathering of people on the other side. They scattered, protesting loudly. “All right, who’s in charge here? Where’s Barrera hiding? Tell him to come out!” And, slinging my shotgun on the saddle, I dismounted unarmed. People didn’t know what to make of me, and they exchanged puzzled smiles. “Hey there, friend, what do you want?” The speaker, a peroxide blonde with badly applied makeup and a showy dress, put her hands on her hips, wagging her skinny arms. “I want to gamble, that’s all. Play dice. This pocket is full of money.” I threw a handful of silver coins in the air, and they thumped in the dust. Then I heard the wheezy voice of old man Zubieta, saying, from the next room: “Clarita, tell the gentleman to come in.” The owner, dressed in his underwear, was sitting astride a low hammock. His hair was reddish, his face, freckled, his belly, protruding, but his eyes were tiger’s eyes. He extended a calloused, swollen hand, as a squeaky laugh filtered through his mustache. “Forgive me, sir, if I don’t stand.” “I’m Franco’s partner, and I’m ready to pay for our thousand bulls, in cash, right here, right now.” “That’s it! That’s the way I like it! You have to catch them first, though, because the cowboys I’ve got left ain’t got no horses. They ain’t worth a damn, anyway.” “I’ll get the men, and the horses. And I won’t let anyone lure them away to Vichada.” “I like you, pilgrim. That’s well said.” I went outside to unsaddle my horse, and there was Clarita, whispering with my enemy as she poured water over his hands from a gourd. When they saw me, the two moved out of sight. Part One · 45

“What thief picked up the money that I threw here?” “I’ve got it. Come get it,” said a man, whom I immediately recognized as among those who, days before, had come with Winchesters to take don Rafael’s merchandise. “Here I am, coward. We can settle up for the other day.” He walked toward me threateningly, with a glance, as if for instructions, toward the place where his boss was hidden. Before he had time to do anything more, I leveled him with a single punch. At that point, Barrera emerged from his hiding place: “Señor Cova, what’s going on? Come with me, please! A gentleman such as yourself ought to pay no attention to peons.” The offended party was sitting on a rail some distance away, nursing a bloody nose, without taking his eyes off me for an instant. Barrera upbraided him roughly: “Insolent, ill-­mannered brute! Our guest deserves respect!” Barrera invited me to relax in the shade of the house’s wide, overhanging roof, promising that my money would be scrupulously returned. Meanwhile, his employee unsaddled my horse and put away my shotgun, which I then forgot about altogether. I could hear other employees gossiping excitedly in the detached kitchen. When I entered the old man’s bedroom again, Clarita must have been telling him what had happened, because the two suddenly fell silent. “Will you be spending the night with us?” “No, sir, friend Zubieta, with your permission. I’m in the mood to drink and gamble, and maybe sing and dance, too!” “You honor us!” affirmed Barrera, and he explained to the others: “This poet is one of Colombia’s national glories.” “Glories?” inquired the old rancher. “What kind of glory? Can he ride and rope and castrate and brand?” “Of course!” I shouted. “Anything you want!” “That’s it! That’s the way I like it!” He leaned out of the low-­slung hammock toward the bottle that stood on the floor a little out of his reach. “Clarita, sweet, hand us the brandy.” Barrera, to avoid drinking, left the room momentarily, and he returned with a handful of silver. “I believe these coins belong to you.” “You’re mistaken,” I said. “From this moment on, they belong to Clarita!” Clarita accepted them, beaming her gratitude and delivering the following compliment: 46 · The Vortex

“How delightful! A real gentleman! Watch him and learn!” Zubieta seemed pensive. Then he called for a table, and when we had downed another round of brandy, he pointed to a small pouch that hung from a bull’s horn protruding from the wall: “Clarita, reach me Saint Polonia’s molars!” Clarita put the dice on the table.

Without doubt, my new friend contributed to my success, that night, at a plebeian amusement previously unknown to me. I rolled the dice nervously, and sometimes they landed underneath the hammock. On those occasions, amid a fit of coughing laughter in a cloud of tobacco smoke, the old man inquired: “Did he beat me? Did he beat me?” And Clarita held the lamp down toward the floor and answered: “He sure did. He’s one lucky fellow!” Barrera pretended to believe whatever Clarita reported, and he confirmed her verdicts while plying everyone (but himself ) with liquor. She, more than tipsy, carelessly squeezed my hand. The old man, in the same state, babbled obscene ditties. My rival, observing everyone else from above the trembling lamplight, smiled ironically. And I, only semiconscious, kept rolling the dice. A cluster of cowboys had gathered outside the door of the stuffy little room, watching the game. When I had won almost the whole pile of beans that represented vast sums of money, Barrera proposed that he and I go head-­to-­head, wagering everything on a single roll of the dice. He emptied his vest of gold coins. Zubieta pounded the table with enthusiasm and joined the party: “Two throws, one hundred bulls each!” It was then I noticed Barrera’s shoe pressing on Clarita’s, under the table, and I had a presentiment of fraud. I turned to Clarita with a felicitous phrase: “Let’s play this one as partners, you and I.” She covered my extensive pile of beans with her greedy hands. Her ruby ring glowed the color of blood. Zubieta damned his luck when my roll beat his, yet again. “Now it’s your turn,” I said to Barrera, shaking the dice in the cup, which he calmly took from my hand. As he shook the cup, switching the dice inside, he tried to distract us with a dirty story. But as soon as he rolled the dice across the table, I grabbed them, saying: “Dog! These dice are loaded!” Part One · 47

At that instant, the lamp tipped over, extinguished, and a brawl began. Shouts, threats, swearing. Old Zubieta fell out of the hammock and cried for help. I flailed with my fists, in the dark, toward wherever I heard a man’s voice. Someone fired a gun, dogs barked, and door hinges squeaked as the erstwhile audience hastily exited. I slammed the door shut without knowing who was still inside. From outside, Barrera’s voice exclaimed: “That bandit came here to kill me and rob Señor Zubieta! He tried to ambush me last night! Fortunately, Miguel revealed his awful plan. Detain that murderer! Don’t let him get away!” From inside, I shouted insults and imprecations, and Clarita tried to quiet me, pleading: “Don’t go out! They’ll shoot you! Don’t go out!” The old man groaned with fright: “Turn on the light! I’m spitting blood!” When they helped me bolt the door, I felt that one of my wrists was wet. I had a knife wound on my left arm. Someone put a Winchester in my hands and told me in a whisper: “Don’t hurt me. I’m one-­eyed Mauco, a friend to everyone.” Outside, they began pushing on the door, so I shot it full of holes, illuminating the dark with flashes of gunfire as I moved around the room. Finally, the aggression ceased. We plunged into the most frightful silence, which my ears examined minutely. My eagle eye peered through the bullet holes in the door. The yard lay deserted under the moonlight. Yet occasionally I detected an indistinct sound of voices and laughter, coming from I’m not sure where. The pain from my wounded arm started to bother me. The alcohol made me dizzy, and I went down. There I bled until the bleeding stopped on its own, as my panicky companions sat in a corner, listening to my parched ravings and speculating that I was dying. “Water, please! Water. I’m wounded! Please . . .”

At dawn, they opened the room and left me by myself. Through an achy haze, I awoke to the shouts of the landowner, berating the indolent peons who had failed to rescue him during the ruckus. “Thanks to the city boy,” he repeated, “thanks to the city boy, I’m here to tell the tale! He was right, the dice were loaded, and Barrera meant to cheat me. I found one under the table. Take a look. It’s loaded with quicksilver.” 48 · The Vortex

“We couldn’t get close because of the shooting.” “Who wounded Cova, then?” “No telling.” “Go tell Barrera that I don’t want him here. That’s what he’s got his own tents for. Tell him to stay at his camp or take off. Say my boy’s here with his Winchester.” Clarita and one-­eyed Mauco came to my aid with a pan of hot water. They cut my shirt sleeve so that it could be removed without hurting my stiff and swollen arm. Then, moistening the edges of the fabric that had become stuck to the wound, they uncovered the narrow but profound opening in the muscle near the shoulder. They sterilized the wound with raw rum, and before applying the dressing, the one-­eye spoke in ritualistic tones: “Now close your eyes and believe, because I’m going to pronounce the incantation.” In amazement, I looked at the strange fellow with puffy, dirt-­colored cheeks and purple lips as, with elaborate care, he put down his walking stick and doffed his greasy, ­ragged-­brimmed hat, given shape (whatever shape it had) by a thick twine of crudely twisted fibers. I glimpsed his dropsical flesh through his rags, principally his distended belly, which extended over the tops of his feet when he squatted beside me on the ground. He turned his one blinking eye toward the doorway to scold the small audience that had gathered there. “This isn’t a game. If you’re not going to believe, you had better go away, because you’ll spoil the spell.” The shiftless audience became fervently rapt, as if in church, and one-­ eyed Mauco, after making a number of occult signs in the air, mumbled a singsong known to such practitioners as the “prayer of the righteous judge.” Then, satisfied that the mystery had been wrought, he gathered up his hat and his staff, rose, and inclined over the bull hide upon which I lay: “Don’t worry about the pain. You’ll be cured in no time. One more session will do it.” I looked skeptically at Clarita and found in her the most fanatical of believers. In order to banish my doubts, she explained that Mauco was a skilled veterinarian whose spells worked on both animals and people, routinely deworming livestock. “And that’s not all,” added the strange figure. “I’ve got prayers for everything, like finding lost cattle or dead bodies, or making myself invisible. During the big war, whenever someone came after me, I turned myself into a palm tree. One time they caught me before I finished the spell, and they Part One · 49

locked me in a room with two locks, but I turned into an ant and escaped under the door. If not for me, who knows what would have happened last night! If they came in, I was ready to turn into fog and blind them. When I saw you were wounded, I quick recited the ‘prayer of the healing healer,’ and the bleeding stopped.” Slowly I fell into a trancelike state. A vague desire to sleep came over me. The voices receded from my ears, and my eyes filled with shadows. I had the impression of falling into a deep pit, down, down, and never reaching the bottom.

Resentment made Alicia’s memory hateful to me. This calamity was all her fault. If I had any responsibility, it was a sin of omission. I had not been stern enough with her. I had not imposed my authority and my affection at all cost, as I ought to have done. With such unreasonable reasoning, I poisoned my spirit and hardened my heart. Had she truly been unfaithful? How had Barrera managed to seduce her? Had he seduced her? Or had Griselda’s revelation to me been mere trickery, her attempt to turn me against Alicia? In that case I had been unfairly harsh, but Alicia would have to forgive me, whether or not I asked her forgiveness, because I belonged to her, with all my virtues and defects. She had no right to pick and choose. The effects of the venga venga surely contributed to my exoneration, as well. I had been out of my head. When, except under the influence of inebriants, had I ever given her reason for complaint? Why, then, did she not come looking for me? Now and then, I thought I saw her coming, under a big hat with languid plumes, sobbing and reaching out to me: “What terrible man has injured you in a fight over me? Why are you lying on the floor? Why don’t they give you a bed?” And bathing my face in her tears, she sat beside my head and pillowed it on her tremulous thighs, combing my hair with her loving fingers. Hallucinating in my obsession, it was upon Clarita that I leaned my head, then pulled away, realizing that it was she. “Hey, rest your head, it’s all right. How’s your fever? Do you want more to drink? Should I change your bandage?” At moments, I could hear the old landowner right outside the door, coughing impatiently: “Woman, get out of there and let him rest. What is he, your husband?” 50 · The Vortex

Clarita shrugged. Why didn’t this woman abandon me? She was nothing but leftover trash from a brothel, scum from the social dregs, a starving, wandering she-­wolf. Whence came the mysterious redemption, the nervous tenderness with which she ministered to my needs, just as any decent woman, including Alicia herself, would do? Just as all the women had done, who had ever loved me? At one point she inquired how much money was in my pockets. It was a few pounds sterling, which she put between her breasts. And then, when no one else was around, she read from a bit of paper softly into my ear: “Zubieta owes you for one hundred bulls. Barrera, a hundred pounds. And I’m keeping ­twenty-­eight more for you.” “Clarita, you’ve said that I won everything fair and square. It’s all for you, because you’ve been so good to me.” “Hey, what are you saying? You think I want repayment? All I want is to get out of here and go back to Venezuela, in hopes that my parents will forgive me, in hopes that I can get old and die there. Barrera promised to pay my way, and since then, he uses me any way he wants, as much as he wants. Zubieta, on the other hand, says he’ll marry me and take me back to my parents. That’s why I’ve been drinking with the old man these last two months, because he always says, ‘Who’s he gonna get hitched with, if not the one he drinks with?’ “I’ve been stranded in these parts since Colonel Infante brought me. He won me at cards in Venezuela, during the war, and after they lost the war, he had to come to Colombia. He abandoned me here. Then, day before yesterday, when I saw you charging up the riverbank on horseback, with your hat bouncing on your neck, shotgun in hand, knocking the peons every which way—well, I thought that you looked like my man. And I liked you even better when I found out that you’re a poet.”

Mauco came to pray over my wound, and this time I had the good sense to pretend that I believed in his powers. He sat in the hammock to chew tobacco, which involved gnawing on a black, twisted ring with the appearance of beef jerky, and then flooding the floor with noisy expectorations of odiferous juices and saliva. Next, he gave me reports on Barrera: “He says he’s got a fever and doesn’t show his nose outside his tent. All he does is ask when you are leaving. Looks like you done gave him malaria.” Part One · 51

“Why hasn’t Zubieta come here to spend time in his hammock?” “He’s worried something else will happen. Now he sleeps out in the kitchen and bars the door at night.” “Has Barrera been back to La Maporita?” “His fever hasn’t let him so much as stand up!” This information soothed my spirit because I felt protective of Alicia, and even of Griselda. What were they up to? What would they say about my conduct? When would they come for me? The first day that I felt strong enough to move around, using a handkerchief I hoisted my arm into a makeshift sling and stepped out the door. Zubieta had hung his hammock there, under the covered walkway that gave access to each of the house’s rooms. He was napping, and Clarita sat beside him, absorbed in shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. The thatched roof and mud-­daub walls of the house were in disrepair, and mine was the only room that appeared fit for human habitation. The kitchen defended its doorway with a muddy puddle incorporating the accumulated waste liquids discarded there, over time, by the greasy, sweating, ragged cooks. In the scruffy yard, several semiputrid raw hides were staked out amid buzzing horseflies to dry in the sun. A vulture busily pulled bloody strips from one of them. In the outbuildings, a number of cowhands kept watch over fighting cocks tied on their perches, while piglets rooted and dogs sniffed behind them in the dirt. Unwatched, I went to the gate. In the corral, the restless cattle stood in the sun with no water. A couple of employees lay stretched out napping in the shade behind the house, where they had spread a piece of cloth over the litter. Farther away, on the bank of the river, I spotted my rival’s camp, and beyond it, where a line of palms dwindled on the horizon, lay La Maporita . . . where Alicia must be thinking about me! Clarita, seeing that I had left my room, hurried to me with her white parasol: “Hey, the sun’s going to aggravate your wound. Come to the shade and don’t act so foolish!” And she smiled, revealing her gold teeth. Because she had spoken loudly on purpose, the old man sat up in his hammock. “That’s what I like! Young fellows shouldn’t stay in bed all day!” I settled onto the heavy rail that surrounded the covered walkway at waist height and began the conversation that had been on my mind: “So, how’s this going to work?” “How’s what going to work?” 52 · The Vortex

“The sale of the bulls?” “What bulls?” “You know. The deal with Franco . . .” “We didn’t actually make a deal. What he offered as collateral isn’t worth much. But, as long as you’re going to pay up front, you can catch them, if you’ve got horses, and we’ll look at them and put a price on them.” Clarita interrupted: “When are you giving Cova the two hundred and fifty that he won from you?” “What two hundred and fifty?” Zubieta straightened up and started to argue: “If you had lost at dice, how were you going to pay? Let me see the color of your money.” “Hey, do you think you’re the only rich fellow in the world?” countered his consort. “The loser pays!” The old man thrust his fingers through the hammock netting and squeezed it in frustration. Suddenly he proposed: “Tomorrow is Sunday. Let me have a chance to win it back at the cockfights.” “You’re on!”

My Admired Señor Cova: What evil power does alcohol possess, capable of destroying all reason and lowering humanity to such criminal depths? How did it cause even me, a man of naturally inoffensive temperament, to lose my tongue in the heat of disputation and offend the dignity of so respectable a personage as yourself ? Could I publicly throw myself at your feet, imploring forgiveness, believe me that I would not hesitate. But as infirmity has prevented me from doing so, I cannot but lie here meditating on past trespasses that, fortunately, failed to tarnish your sterling reputation. Far from it. Alas, even my poor attempt to remedy matters must appear to you a vulgar bourgeois intrusion into the Empyrean realm of poetry. Nonetheless—and pardon my boldness—I must tell you that our dear mutual friend, Señor Zubieta, owes me quite a considerable sum of money for loans and merchandise, which he has paid in the form of the bulls which currently occupy the corral. I accepted the bulls thinking that you might

Part One · 53

need them. Take a look at them, set whatever price you will, and please believe that my only desire is to serve you in whatever manner. Best wishes from your most fervent admirer, Barrera This letter was delivered to me in front of Clarita. The small boy who delivered it watched me turn pale with rage, and he began cautiously inching backward in the absence of a response. “Tell that shameless creature that, when I catch him alone one day, his adulation won’t save him!” Clarita, in the meantime, was reading the message for herself. “Hey, he doesn’t say what he owes you for, like the knife wound, and the gunshot, too. He’s the one who cut you, you know. That day when he saw you arrive, the first thing he did was load his gun and grease his stiletto. Also, keep your eye on the cowboy called Millán, you know, the guy who threatened you and you punched him in the nose. He’s got orders to hurt you, and he hates your guts. And Zubieta doesn’t owe Barrera for merchandise, like he says. Barrera gave the old man a hoard of gold coins, supposedly for safekeeping, so that I could steal them. But the old man went and buried them! Then Barrera started cheating the old man at dice. Every morning he asks me for the gold, saying that part of it will be for my trip home. ‘Plainly, you’ve lost your desire to revisit that wonderful country,’ he says. That man has sinister plans. Hey, if it weren’t for you—” “Give me the letter to show to Zubieta.” “Don’t say anything to him. He’s a clever one. He knows how dangerous Barrera is. He gave Barrera that corral full of bulls just to humor him. Without horses, those bulls aren’t going nowhere, and Zubieta hid all the horses, but not before he sent riders out to say he had no livestock for sale this year. When Barrera asked what the old man was up to, he said ‘nothing,’ and then, just to put Barrera off the scent, Zubieta pretended to offer those bulls to Fidel Franco, but he didn’t mean it.” “So you don’t think he’s going to sell us anything?” “He sort of likes you, I’d say.” “How can I make him like me better?” “Simple. Let those bulls, that he supposedly gave to Barrera, out of the corral! All you have to do is give them a good scare, and they’ll bust right through the gate.” “Will you help me do it tonight?” 54 · The Vortex

“Whenever you want. Won’t take much more than the sight of this white dress to get them started. The important thing is to make sure nobody gets trampled in the stampede. Fortunately, most people here go to bed early.” “You don’t think that we’ll be seen?” “Not hardly. After dark, when Zubieta locks himself in the kitchen, the few that don’t have a partner for bed go down to the rubber trader’s tents to play cards. I’ll go, too, so that nobody gets the wrong idea. When you calculate that I’ll soon be back, wait for me outside your room with the jaguar skin. We’ll give it a shake in the corral and watch the fun! Once the fun starts, anybody who sees us will think the stampede woke us up, same as everybody else.”

I buried the vengeful ploy deep in my spirit, as one might conceal a scorpion in one’s shirt, for safekeeping. Every so often, I felt it stir and was reminded of its sting. When afternoon reclined over the plains, the cowboys returned with the herd of bulls. The animals had spent the day grazing among thick grasses and the esteros that mirrored the sky, until the sky went purple and their lowered heads sometimes seemed to extinguish terrestrial stars. Then a boy led the herd back toward the corral, singing, in time with the trot of his mount, the childish song used to soothe the semiwild livestock of the llanos. The venerable bulls with enormous horns followed him solemnly in groups, threads of saliva dangling from their foamy lips, their eyes made sleepy by captivity, although still susceptible to sudden, unpredictable injections of fire. Behind and along the flanks of the formidable herd, other cowpunchers advanced amid a monotonous chorus of low whistles, at the lethargic pace set by their tired horses. With patient skill, bred of long experience, they enclosed the bulls once more in the corral, always careful to avoid dispersal. The only sound was the boy’s melancholy singsong, a more effective guide than blowing a cattle horn in the corral as we do in the highlands. They closed the entrance to the corral with thick rails, strongly tied in place with leather. And once it was dark, they lit fires of dried cow dung around the corral so that the herd would press together and settle in place, absorbed in chewing its cud and watching the flames, as the constellations spread across the sky. Meanwhile, I pondered our midnight plan, resisting the fear that chilled my temples and wrinkled my eyebrows. Yet, the certainty of vengeance, the opportunity to strike at my enemy, lent acuity to my senses, spirit to my tongue, and ardor to my resolution. Part One · 55

At about eight o’clock, one-­eyed Mauco protested that the dung fires were keeping his fighting cocks awake. When nobody moved to put out the fires, Mauco took his cocks to my room. “Let them sleep here, please. They’re good chickens, but they need their sleep the night before a fight.” Later, all fell silent around the ranch house and its outbuildings. The only light was cast across the darkened fields by the lanterns at Barrera’s tents near the river. Clarita, when she came from there, was almost inebriated. “Hey, don’t worry, silly! Follow me.” We went through the banana trees to approach the corral from behind. The herd seemed sound asleep, sunk in deep repose. On the other side of the corral, a cowboy or two stood watch. At that point, Clarita climbed on my knee and shook the gold-­dappled skin over the fence. Suddenly, there were loud sounds of clashing horns, the herd began to swirl, and the weight of it pressed against the massive fence of the corral like a surging tide. One bull broke its chest against the solid rail of the gate and fell, dying, to be trampled by the tumult. The watchmen mounted and began to sing, which had an immediate calming effect. But new ripples of disturbance coursed through the mass of animals, to set them bellowing, shoving, and goring each other. Again the gate creaked. And just as a landslide carries all before it, breaking away entire hillsides, flowing wherever it will, the furious herd burst through the timbers that had imprisoned it and flooded over the plain, through the terrified night, thundering like a tidal wave. Men and women appeared with lanterns, calling for help. Without unbarring the door of the kitchen, Zubieta shouted questions about what was happening. Dogs followed the vanished herd, barking, hens clucked fearfully, and some of the vultures in the big ceiba tree hurled themselves clumsily into the blackness. Ten of the bulls lay trampled to death in and around the corral, and four horses. Clarita came with these details, stressing the need for secrecy. When I put the jaguar skin back on the floor of my room, the sound of the stampeding herd still echoed in the distance.

The next morning I got up after the commentaries about last night’s episode and after Zubieta’s theatrical reaction to it: loud curses to disguise his inward delight. 56 · The Vortex

“It’s not my fault, damn it all, that they stampeded! Tell Barrera to go catch them if he’s got the horses for it. But he’s got to pay me for the four that died last night, damn it all!” “Señor Barrera says he’d like to come discuss the matter.” “No, he can’t come around here, because my city boy’s armed and gunning for him! I don’t want no more trouble on my properties.” “They say that the spirit of old Julián Hurtado appeared in the corral and caused the stampede,” said another voice. “One of the watchmen saw a white figure behind the fence, over on the side of the corral where they say Hurtado buried money.” “That could be it!” “Yes, because we saw his spirit just the other night! He was walking on the edge of the savanna with a lantern in his hand, and his feet didn’t touch the ground!” “So why didn’t you ask the spirit what it wanted?” “Because the light went out, and we was all sort of dazed.” “You!” roared Zubieta’s voice. “Bandits! It was you who was digging around the roots of the algarrobo tree! If I catch you red-­handed, I’m gonna put bullets through you!” When I stepped outside, there were lots of people around, Barrera not among them. Simulating innocence, I went to the corral, where a couple of men were quartering the bulls that had gotten their entrails trampled out of them during the stampede. “It was no use,” said one of them, “to get out in front singing to try and calm them down. I went a long way with them, and thanks to my trusty colt I stayed ahead of them and didn’t get killed!” A few moments later, back at the house, there was Clarita selling rum to the crowd from a carved coconut shell. Among them were men I’d never seen, and underneath their ponchos many had brought feathered contestants for the day’s journey. Occasionally one of the birds crowed, an earsplitting sound in the covered area where the event was to take place. Meanwhile, their seated masters discreetly arranged future bets, or sharpened their champions’ fighting spurs, or spit rum under the birds’ wings to cool them off. Tied by their legs with sturdy cords, the rivals of showy plumage and puffy necks scratched the ground and glared at one another defiantly. Finally, with a half-­burned stick, Zubieta drew an irregular circle on the ground. Then he settled into his chair and, leaning back against a column, took a long tug on his bottle of rum before announcing with a raucous laugh: Part One · 57

“Ten bulls says the red one wins the first fight, against that white one!” Clarita, standing behind him, moved her head, telling me not to bet. But, arrogantly, I stepped toward the old man and said: “Let me pick the bird, and I’ll wager the two hundred and fifty bulls I won from you at dice.” The old man backed down. Then another man stepped up, with a raised fist, saying to Zubieta: “Put up ten bulls against the money I’ve got in my hand, or against everything I’m carrying,” and he patted his money belt. Zubieta didn’t accept that bet, either, but the man insisted, showing his handful of gold coins: “Look, boss, them’s ‘eagles’ and ‘queens’ for the collection that you’ve got buried somewhere!” “Lies! But if your gold is good, I’ll trade you paper money for it!” “Not likely.” “Well, let me take a look.” The old man scrutinized the coin all over with hungry eyes, he ran his fingertips softly over heads and tails, listened to its ring, and raised it to his teeth for a final test. Satisfied, he shouted: “You’re on! The red one against the white one!” “But only on the condition that one-­eyed Mauco can’t be here. He’ll put a hex on my chicken!” “The hell I’ll put a hex!” Still, they jostled Mauco, grumbling plaintively, away from ringside, and shut him in the kitchen. A man lifted each rooster to prepare it for the fight, sucking on its spurs, in view of onlookers, to show they weren’t poisoned, and finally rubbing each spur with a cut lime to purify it, as the spectators watched with signs of approval. Then, at a signal, they put the two cocks face-­to-­face within the circle. The referee leaned over them and recited a sort of doggerel to precipitate the encounter: “At the eyes, before he flies; at the legs, your owner begs; at the wings, before he sings; at the neck, give a peck, give a peck!” The rival birds riveted their eyes on one another, in utmost fury, scratching the dust, the feathers of their necks raised, bristling, fairly vibrating. Simultaneously they launched themselves at one another, their wings flapping, their spurs slashing through the air in blue arcs, as each bird dodged and lunged in a sort of aerial ballet. Implacably, ignoring the excited shouting 58 · The Vortex

of spectators who offered new bets or modifications of old ones, the rivals collided again and again, hacking each other to pieces, stopping suddenly in a panting clinch, holding one another with their beaks, and stabbing, stabbing with their spurs. And so the contest concluded, amid the sparkling of lustrous feathers sprinkled with hot blood, the clinking of coins changing hands among the bettors, and the general applause when the white cock rolled on the ground with its head split open, to lie jerking spasmodically under the claws of the victor, which climbed onto the body of his dying rival and trumpeted his victory, crowing loudly. At that moment, I felt myself blanch at the sight of Franco entering the main gate with several other men on horseback.

Zubieta had a similar reaction at the sight of the newcomers. He went to meet them, limping slightly: “Welcome friends! And where might you be headed?” “Right here,” said Franco, dismounting. And he embraced me effusively: “How are things at home?” I asked. “What happened to your arm?” “It’s nothing. You haven’t been at La Maporita already?” “No, we came here directly from Tame. But I sent the mulato to swing by La Maporita to get you and the horses. Don Rafael sends an abrazo. He got off fine, thank God, and should be almost there by now. Where should we unsaddle?” “Right here,” blathered Zubieta, and he shouted at the assembled cockfighters: “Get this crap out of here, I need the space!” The fighters collected their birds and, to the accompaniment of strings and maracas, exited in the direction of Barrera’s tents as the riders unsaddled. “Is it true there was a stampede last night?” “Why do you ask?” “Since this morning we’ve been seeing cattle running around, and we said, it’s a stampede or else it’s the Indians! But when we got here—” “That’s right! Barrera went and let all the bulls out! Don’t know what he’ll do about it, without horses . . .” “We could round up as many as he wants, if the price is right,” replied Franco. Part One · 59

“I won’t allow no more chasing around after stray livestock in my pastures, because it’s going to spook the rest.” “I meant that, when we start rounding up bulls for ourselves tomorrow, according to our agreement.” “I haven’t signed any papers, and I don’t remember any agreement.” The old man pounded his leg for emphasis before sinking into his hammock. The owner of the defeated white rooster appeared, hat in hand: “Please forgive the interruption.” “There you are! Where’s the gold that I won?” “That’s what I want to discuss. My rooster was sabotaged, fed quinine pills yesterday by one-­e yed Mauco, who bought them yesterday from Barrera, and you yourself mixed them into my animal’s feed corn. I knew all about it, but Señor Barrera wanted me to bet against you anyway to prove your dishonesty, so you’ll stop trying to defame him in the eyes of Señor Cova.” “You can settle that later,” interrupted Franco, giving Zubieta a shake. “It’s more important for us to settle our business deal, because if you think you can jerk me around, you’re wrong!” “Franquito, old buddy, do you want to kill me?” “I want to get the bulls that we agreed on. That’s what I brought cowboys to do, and I’m gonna do it, come what may. And if not, there’ll be the devil to pay!” The cowboys, eager for another show, had formed a circle around Zubieta’s hammock. He looked up at them: “Gentlemen, you are my witnesses, you heard how he was joking around.” As white as a cadaver, because Franco had his pistol out, the old man swiveled his humid eyelids toward me: “For the love of God, boy, I’ll pay you for those two hundred and fifty bulls. Franquito! Please don’t talk that way because you’re scaring me!” Barrera’s man, who apparently believed himself a kind of lawyer, made a pronouncement. “Justice is for everyone. Pay Señor Barrera, too, and it’ll all be settled. He needs to leave for the Vichada rubber fields, and he holds you responsible for the cost of further delay.” At that, the old man went more or less berserk, jumping to his feet between Franco and me: “Bullshit! Total bullshit! Do you have any idea who is standing right here? Want to get pounded to a pulp? These are my dear friends and busi60 · The Vortex

ness partners. Tell Barrera to leave me alone because, if he doesn’t, these two men will make him show some respect!” And, putting an arm around both my shoulders and Franco’s, he launched a kick in the man’s direction.

When Franco saw my wound and I told him what had happened, he grabbed his Winchester and ran out of the room, looking for Barrera. Clarita stopped him in the yard. “What are you going to do? We already got back at him.” And she told him about the stampede. When I saw how my loyal friend had reacted instantaneously in my defense, disposed to risk his life on my behalf, I experienced overpowering remorse. I wanted to confess how I had abandoned the home that he had left under my protection, expecting he would shoot me then and there. “Franco,” I said to him, “I am not worthy of your friendship. I struck her, I struck Griselda.” Utterly disconcerted, he asked, in a strangled voice: “What? Did she wrong you somehow? Or your wife?” “No, no! I got drunk and offended both women for no good reason. I left them alone seven days ago, to come here. Now shoot me, please!” Instead, he dropped the gun and embraced me. “You must have had a reason, whatever you say. I am certain of it!” And he went away without another word. Clarita came and squeezed my hand. “Why didn’t you say that you have a wife?” “Because that’s not for us to speak of.” She lowered her eyes pensively, her fingers knotting and unknotting a cord from which dangled a key. Then she held it out to me. “So, here’s your money!” “I gave it to you, remember? And if you won’t accept a gift, then take it in payment for nursing my wound.” “Payment? I wish you had died!” And she walked away toward the kitchen, where the musicians were playing and drinking. I heard her tell them loudly, for my benefit: “Tell Barrera that I’m going with him after all.” With a melancholy smile, she raised her skirt above her knees and began to dance to their rustic music, as the men whistled and clapped in time. Part One · 61

A weight had lifted from my heart, which now beat more lightly than in many days. Now my only grief was at having offended Alicia, and how sweet was the thought of reconciliation, like the aroma of a freshly plowed field, like a distant intimation of dawn! All that would remain, eventually, of our difficult past, would be the mark of healing. The human soul is like a tree trunk. The bark retains no memory of seasonal flowering, but signs of occasional trauma never completely disappear. No matter, however. Whether troubled or joyful, she and I must live each emotion to the fullest, so that later on, if destiny divides our paths through this world, memory will bring our spirits together whenever one of us separately encounters similar troubles or joys. For love truly is eternal, while it lasts. I even felt the desire to stay forever on the enchanting llanos. Alicia and I would live in a charming little house, raised by my own hand on the bank of a dark, slow-­moving river, or anywhere palm trees nod above pools of transparent green. There, cattle and horses would congregate in the late afternoon, and I, smoking my pipe in the doorway, like a patriarch of old, lulled by the poignant melancholy of the landscape, would watch the sun set on the remote horizon where the night is born. Freed of vanities and the quest for ephemeral triumphs, I would limit my ambitions to the stewardship of my own pastures and livestock, consonant with, and fully self-­realized in, my solitude. Who needs cities? Perhaps my true poetic inspiration lay in the caress of gentle breezes, in the natural mysteries and unknown languages of the plains and of the pristine forests lying beyond. Perhaps my true song was the song of the wave crashing on the rocks, the song of the evening sky above the marsh that reflects its colors, the song of the stars amid the immensity of space and the silence of God. I dreamt of living with Alicia on the llanos, growing old there together with her surrounded by the compensating youth of our children and grandchildren, feeling no sorrow at our natural decline, under the daily rising suns, feeling no regrets as our hearts grew tired even amid the eternal vigor of spritely young animals and green, growing things, until on some distant morning I would finally weep over her lifeless body, or she over mine.

Franco gave instructions that I not participate in the next day’s roundup because, were my wound not allowed to heal, I might get gangrene. There was a shortage of horses anyway, and it would be better to reserve them for experienced cowboys. His second reason filled me with bitterness. 62 · The Vortex

Fifteen horsemen rode out, in the wee hours of the morning, after rising for the usual sip of black coffee. Each had a coiled lariat of braided leather behind his saddle on the ­right-­hand side, and the end of the lariat was anchored securely to his horse’s tail. Each had his poncho spread across his thighs to defend them against the horns of bulls. Each had a serrated “dehorning” knife on his belt. Franco left me his pistol but hung his Winchester on the pommel of his saddle before mounting. Then I fell back asleep. If only I had heard what must have happened then in the kitchen! But, no, I didn’t awake until shortly after sunrise, when Sebastiana’s boy Antonio Correa arrived, bringing a string of remounts from La Maporita for the roundup. I went to meet him and saw Barrera shaving by his tent, with Clarita sitting on a trunk and holding the mirror for him with both hands. They waved at me. Refusing to wave back, I walked beside young Correa’s stirrup into the corral. “Have you seen Alicia? What message do you have for me?” “I didn’t see her because she was always in her room crying. Missy Griselda sends you and Franco these clean clothes, for their arrival, I guess. Missy’s on the lookout for you all the time. She’s packing, too, and says they’re coming here today.” That news put a smile on my face. Alicia was finally coming to look for me! “Are they coming in the canoe?” “Missy had me leave three horses.” “Did they ask you about me?” “My mamá said you’re gonna fill Fidel Franco’s head with stories.” “Had they heard about my arm?” “What happened to it? You’re working the roundup?” “Nothing. A little scratch. It’s fine.” “So where’s my baby?” “Your shotgun? It must still be on my saddle, which is down there in Barrera’s tents. Go down there and get it.” No sooner had he left than a stabbing doubt made me shudder anew. Had Barrera possibly gone back to La Maporita at some point, without my finding out? I’d had Mauco watching him day and night, but did the one-­eye tell me the truth? Barrera is shaving, I thought. He already knows, somehow, that Alicia is coming. Maybe yes, maybe no. But Alicia would know how to act, and Barrera was obviously frightened of me. Why not forget about him and concentrate on the happiness of the Part One · 63

upcoming visit? If Alicia—half needy, half imperious—was coming to look for me, it could only be for love: to win my heart, to make me hers forever. How she would scold me! Solemnly, enumerating my weaknesses one by one. And then, to make them worse, she would conclude with that bewitching little smile that brought out the dimples in her cheeks. And, already pardoning me, she would explain that pardon was out of the question, given the severity of my trespasses, no matter how completely I might reform myself. For my part, I would play it slow, not make it too easy for her, delaying the sublime moment, the moaning kiss of reconciliation. Meeting her canoe at the water’s edge, I would extend my hand to help her alight, ensuring she saw my injured arm in its sling, shrugging off her urgent question: “Are you hurt, are you hurt?” And I’d reply, “Nothing serious, ma’am. You’ve grown so pale!” If they came on horseback, I’d help her dismount, and she would see my arm then. Either way, I would present a different appearance, unshaven and somewhat disheveled, carrying myself like a no-­nonsense, working man. Mauco had been shaving me regularly with the same straight razor he used to slice leather, but I decided to accept no shave that day to distinguish myself from my smooth and unctuous rival. Next I decided to clear out altogether, before the women arrived. They’d have to wait for me impatiently, until I’d finally show up some afternoon, mingled with the other cowpunchers except that, by the lariat tied to my horse’s tail, I’d come along dragging a furious bull. And with a snort, that bull would suddenly charge me, knocking my horse to the ground, and me with it, and Alicia, in a panic, would almost faint, before seeing me blind the bull with my poncho and tumble it to earth with a single powerful twist of its tail! Then I’d swiftly tie its feet together, as the other cowboys gawked in astonishment and envy. Antonio returned from Barrera’s tents with my saddle and his shotgun. “Señor Barrera’s real sorry. Says he didn’t know that stuff was there. Says he’s going to send people to round up the bulls that stampeded.” “I forbid you to have anything to do with those people. If you want company, I’ll go with you.” “Where did they say they’d spend the night?” “In Matanegra,” I specified confidently. “Hmm. Don Fidel told me the mouth of the Pauto River. Okay, got to go. I’ll have a harder time with these horses after dark.” “Go put the clothes you brought in that room, and bring the Winchester. Let’s go. I’m going with you.” 64 · The Vortex

I went to the kitchen to say good-­bye to old man Zubieta. I called his name several times, but nobody answered or opened the door.

When we were so far from the ranch house that only the plumed crests of its palm grove remained visible on the horizon, Antonio dismounted to load his shotgun. “Better safe than sorry. ‘A little bit of powder, and a big handful of buckshot,’ I always say.” “What are you worried about?” “That Barrera’s men might come after us. That’s why I talked about the mouth of the Pauto River, so them that was fixing the gate of the corral would overhear and tell Barrera. Now we’ll go where you said.” We had ridden about three leagues across the llano, when his voice again distracted me from thoughts of Alicia. “I need your advice, if you’ll excuse me. It’s that . . . Clarita’s got her eye on me. I think she likes me.” “Hmm . . . do you like her?” “That’s why I want advice. A few days ago, she said, ‘Look at those strong black arms, and all the rest of you, just my style,’ and she licked her lips.” “What did you do?” “Nothing. I got embarrassed.” “And then what happened?” “That’s what I need advice about, too. She said we should kill old man Zubieta and go far away, her and me.” “What? Why? What for?” “So I’d tell her where the old man’s got his gold buried.” “What? That can’t be! That must be Barrera’s idea.” “Totally, because Barrera told me, too. He said, ‘If you had the right clothes, mulato, why, you’d have your pick of the ladies!’ And he said he knew one that liked me already.” “What did you say to that?” “I said: ‘Yes sir, and she sleeps in your bed!’ Just like that, but he didn’t even blink, the devil. He started talking about Zubieta, about his not paying his hired hands, and how, if he ever does pay their wages, next thing he does is pull out his dice and leave them naked as the day they was born. And that’s true.” Part One · 65

By this time, the heat was beginning to get to me, so I ordered Correa to locate a water hole where I could cool my brow and quench my thirst. “Around here? No water around here. We’ll have to go that way.” He led me across vast stretches of bare, sunbaked ground so dry and flinty hard as to file the rough edges off our horses’ hooves. Crossing these mini-­ deserts was preferable, however, to negotiating the s­ nake-­infested ditches all around them. The water hole, when it finally appeared, was a small, opaque puddle with contents the consistency of cough syrup. The hoofprints of large quadrupeds marked the surrounding mud and presaged flavors of salt and ammonia. I was overcome by repugnance at the sight, but Correa’s example inspired me to drink. Without dismounting, he leaned over and scooped a drinking horn full of liquid from between the churning feet of our horses. “Then you take your handkerchief, like this . . .” Putting his handkerchief over the mouth of the drinking horn, he strained its liquid contents into his mouth. Then he shook the ­strained-­out insects off the wet handkerchief, scooped up more liquid, and repeated the process several times. “Someone’s been here not long ago,” he said. “Someone not from the llanos. That’s the print of a horseshoe, or a shod mule, to judge by the size, and llaneros don’t shoe horses. Ain’t no rocks here.” He was right. Not far beyond the water hole we came in sight of two dark specks moving on the horizon. “There they are. Looks like they’re lost.” “Looks like they’re cattle, if you ask me.” “Nope. People. Wait and see.” The people, for such they in fact proved to be, seemed to see us. They came in our direction. Soon we made out the red parasol carried by the lead rider, who was further protected from the sun by an enormous bedsheet and who spurred his poor mule frantically. Curiously, suspiciously, we waited in the minimal shade of a palm for the riders to approach. As Correa busied himself adjusting our saddlebags, the two men arrived within shouting distance: “Assistance, good sirs, for the cause of justice, which has wandered off course!” “Ain’t the first time,” replied the mulato. “Kindly direct us to the Hato Grande ranch. The good doctor of laws, here, is the judge of Orocué, and I am the interim secretary of the court, and also, now, guide, though less successfully.” 66 · The Vortex

I asked whether the judge were José Isabel Rincón Hernández, whose reputation preceded him. The circuit judge of Casanare was known for having risen from obscure origins to become a musician in the municipal brass band before occupying a judicial bench made infamous by a thousand abuses. “Yes,” responded the man wrapped in a sheet. “I am the judge, and this fellow who addressed you is a simple scribe.” The judge’s consumptive countenance was as bilious in color as his celluloid glasses frames, and not too different in tint from his t­ artar-­encrusted teeth. He rested the parasol on his shoulder to mop his brow with a towel, cursing the official duties that obliged him to sacrifice himself in this manner—ill-­mounted in savage lands, dealing inevitably with ignorant, lowly people, risking attack by wild beasts and Indians. “Take us this very moment,” he commanded, wheeling the mule back in the direction he had come, “to Hato Grande ranch, where a fiend known as Cova has run amok; where my friend, the rubber baron Barrera, risks life and limb, not to mention property; where the notorious Franco, a wanted criminal, abuses my tolerance, when all I ask of him is good behavior. Put yourselves at the service of the law, gentlemen. Turn over your horses immediately.” “You are disoriented, sir, about the location of Hato Grande ranch, about the character of those whom you so carelessly impugn, and about the availability of my horses.” “Impudent young fellow! I know enough. I’ve received personal messages, first from Zubieta about Barrera, and then from Barrera about Cova. And you may be certain that my labors to extend the benefits of justice will benefit even the likes you, whoever you are, because the law, like the firmament above, covers all of us. And if the coverage of the sky is not foolproof, it is still true, that the welfare of society requires unanimous support. The power to tax belongs to the government, and it shall not be abridged. If you do not wish to serve as guides, kindly pay me the cost of hiring that service professionally.” “You’re asking us to pay a fine?” “Absolutely. No appeals,” confirmed the secretary. “Keep in mind, they don’t pay our salaries anymore.” “Look,” I said, pointing, “Hato Grande is not far away, and we’re headed to Corozal. Go back over there, down to that tree line, then along it, cross the watercourse, keeping on going, and you’ll see the ranch house in another half hour or so.” Part One · 67

“See?” demanded the judge of his cowering scribe. “I was right, back there. Now, because of your ignorance, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get sunstroke. That’s disrespect if I’ve ever seen it, and disrespect of the constituted authorities will cost you a five-­peso fine.” And after reducing my fine to a box of matches and a few cigarettes’ worth of tobacco, the two of them entered the horizon, going in the opposite direction from the way they had come.

Talking with Correa cleared up a few details for me concerning Franco’s brush with the law in Arauca. Correa got the story from an eyewitness, a young man by the name of Helí Mesa, who later visited La Maporita. Franco, it seems, had been a lieutenant in the army, stationed in Arauca. He did not live in the barracks but, rather, with Griselda, in a little house on the riverbank some distance away. Franco’s superior, the local commander, set his sights on Griselda, and to get her alone, he put Franco in charge of the barracks while he visited the little house on the riverbank. Franco somehow got wind of his superior’s trick. Abandoning his assignment that night, he went straight home. Exactly what happened there isn’t quite clear, but the commander returned with a couple of knife wounds in the chest, and, weakened by loss of blood and fevers, he died within the week after making a public statement favorable to the accused. Neither Franco nor Griselda was pursued for the crime, despite the fact that they fled Arauca that very night. Only the judge at Orocué took an interest, issuing periodic summonses with Franco’s name on them. These summonses amounted to demands for bribery, and so brazen were the demands that, after several of them had been paid, the monthly notification read simply: “Payment due.” As we rode across the llano, a playful, suddenly rising wind began to ruffle our horses’ manes and tug at our hats. A moment later, berserk clouds clambered toward the sun, devouring the light, and a subterranean rumble shook the ground. A storm was upon us, said Correa, and we flattened into a gallop, letting our string of remounts run free, so better to fend for themselves in the tempest. We raced for the shelter of a distant line of trees, across a stretch where the merciless wind tossed the moaning palms back and forth and sometimes made them vanish altogether, knocking them over to scornfully sweep the pulsing grass with their mangled fronds. Cattle clustered, with instinctive discipline and speed, on ground that sloped away from the 68 · The Vortex

wind, the many timorous cows pushed into a compact mass by a few bulls, their tails fluttering to one side as they bellowed loudly and patrolled the defensive perimeter of the herd. Waters ran upstream, and flocks of ducks tumbled across the sky like windblown leaves. Then the awesome clouds closed the space between heaven and earth, dropping their heavy curtain of rain, ripped by lightning, thickened by thunder, convulsed by ricocheting gusts of darkness. So furious was the gale that it practically tore us from our saddles. Our horses stopped and turned to stand with their rumps into the wind. Correa and I spread our ponchos on the grass and lay facedown on them. The wind had grown so thick and dark that we could see only one nearby palm rising and falling, until it burst into flames when hit by a bolt of lightning on the upswing. The bright crackling of the palm’s disintegrating tissues could be heard even above the general howl as it shook its fiery headdress apart, a living torch, depriving the wind of surface area to push against, dying erect and resolute, as if in a sublime gesture of defiance, never more to sweep the ground. When the squall had passed, we saw that our string of remounts had dispersed, and we trotted around to find them. Wet to the bone, buffeted by the still gusting wind, we rode for leagues without spotting the rest of our horses. Following the receding wall of dark clouds, we found ourselves on a high bank over the great, overflowing Meta River. From that vantage, we watched the dance of its boiling waves, into which the lightning dove in incessant, implacable zigzags while, along the shore, massive portions of the high banks, each with a green crest of forest, collapsed into the river, undercut by the surging current, splashing gargantuan columns of water high into the air. After the deafening thump of the splash came the staccato snapping of trunks, limbs, and vines, as the whirling vortices churned trees and earth into rafts of muddy leaves and splinters. We turned and traversed soggy prairies where the palms were cautiously lifting their fearful heads, still in search of our lost string of remounts, and we were still at it when night fell. Out of sorts, I trotted resolutely behind Correa among the final flashes of distant lightning, through flooded bottomlands where our horses moved up to their bellies in water. Finally, upon attaining a bit of higher ground, we glimpsed distant firelight that lent a cheery glow to the woods before us. There is the camp of our friends, I assumed. There they are! In great excitement, I prepared to shout, to Correa’s horror: “Don’t shout, for God’s sake! Those are Indians!” Part One · 69

And we turned away into the darkened llano, where the panthers were starting their eerie nighttime chirps and whistles, and we rode without rest or shelter or direction until dawn finally opened its golden fortress.

At daylight, we saw several cowboys approaching with a “godmother,” as llaneros call a group of well-­trained oxen used to lead a herd of cattle. A so-­called godmother is essential to any roundup because it helps reassure and guide animals newly added to the herd. The sun was up, and the cattle walked toward us along the sunbeams that stretched horizontally over the llano, occasionally cropping high tufts of grass without breaking stride. Fidel Franco was not among the cowboys, but Correa greeted each by name, breathlessly telling one named Eugenio about the storm, the Indians, and the loss of the string of remounts: “Let me tell you, Eugenio. I’ve never been so lost as I was last night. And nobody to help except for this city boy with a gimpy arm!” “Hey, anybody can get turned around, man, what with all that rain and thunder and lightning and all. Don’t worry about it.” “How’s the roundup going?” “Not going, I’d say. We left the ranch in the evening, searched all night, and didn’t find hardly nothing. The cattle got spooked by the storm, I reckon, and holed up in the trees and wouldn’t come out. The onliest ones we laid eyes on, ’bout three hours ago, wouldn’t come near us, even though the godmother called for nearly a quarter hour. So we finally went at them with lassos, but there wasn’t no keepers. Bunch of old cows is all. And to make matters worse, see that good-­for-­nothing sambo, Batista, back there, carrying his saddle and dragging his ass in the dirt? Broke his damned horse’s neck galloping in the dark! Where’s he from, anyway? He ain’t no llanero.” “Hey, Batista,” shouted Correa, “come ride my horse a little while! I want to stretch my legs.” To show that I had plenty of spirit left in me, I imagined that Alicia could hear me and addressed the cowboy called Isidoro: “Hey ’Sidoro, how many did you lasso yesterday?” “Maybe fifty. But, hey, yesterday, you should have seen! Millán and Fidel almost got into it.” “No kidding! What happened?” 70 · The Vortex

“So, Millán shows up with his people, ­worst-­mounted cowboys I ever saw, saying he needed the Matanegra corral because they had to catch Barrera’s stampeded bulls from the other night. Franco didn’t even answer— until he saw that Millán had dogs with him. Then he made some observations about Millán’s mother. Millán said that the bulls attracted by our godmother belonged to Barrera, too, and he went after them. That’s when Fidel leveled his Winchester at Millán. “Where are Barrera’s people working?” “Some went back to Hato Grande,” said Millán. “And some are over there. They’re carrying machetes. It’s getting ugly. And now you’ve let the remounts get away!” “That’s not the worst of it,” exclaimed another cowboy. “The worst is that the judge of Orocué is here. Millán found him wandering around and assigned a cowboy to escort him to the ranch house. We don’t want no problems with the law. Better to clear out of here right now!” “Friends,” I announced with confidence. “I’ll make sure that nothing happens to you.” “Yeah? And who will make sure nothing happens to you? Because you’re the one he’s looking for!”

Fidel wasn’t discouraged by the setbacks. He didn’t scold Correa for losing the remounts, and he even expressed satisfaction that my arm had healed well enough to handle the reins. The lost horses had probably returned to their home pastures, and we’d find them later at La Maporita. I did notice that he wasn’t eager to talk about the altercation with Millán. “It was a discussion of no importance,” he said. “Anyway, there’s room for a lot of graves on the llanos. Let’s just make sure they aren’t ours.” Despite that jocular reply, he reacted more strongly when he heard of the cowboys’ talk of clearing out. “They definitely will leave, too, damn it. They all have accounts with the law, see, because they’re all part-­time cattle thieves.” Then I inquired distractedly, much of my attention going to cutting a piece of roasted meat from a spit leaning over the fire: “When will the roundup resume?” “The godmother is all that we were waiting for. It was a mistake to start at Guanapalo. The Indians hunt cattle near there, so the cattle have learned to hide. Ah, but here! Talk about bulls! There must be a couple thousand of those big boys on this side of the river! And each of our horses is still fresh Part One · 71

enough to run down two bulls. So that’s two times fifteen, equals thirty longhorns! Every throw of the lasso has got to bring down a bull. I swear that I’ll dock the pay of the cowboy who throws his lasso and misses.” “And where are Barrera’s people?” “Down in those trees. They aren’t real cowboys, anyway, except for Millán. And I told them personally that if those dogs stir up my livestock tonight, they’d better hope the devil’s expecting them, because we’ll be sending them to hell for breakfast, with best regards.” While we ate, the cowboys with the godmother had taken it to good pasture and left it in the care of a few boys. Beyond them was a glassy estero and a grove of moriche palms that grow in standing water, and beyond the moriches one could see many bulls grazing tranquilly in the company of their harems. Those bulls would be our first prizes of the day. We rode toward them in an enveloping arc, ready to converge in a flash at the shouted command. Unfortunately, the animals got wind of us and raced toward the moriches to escape. One or two of the fiercest machos stood their ground, facing us resolutely and waving their long, curved, sharply pointed horns to frighten our horses. Our well-­practiced horses avoided them and leapt in pursuit of the fugitives, plunging through undergrowth and over enormous termite mounds at breakneck speed. The air hummed with lariats of heavy, braided leather, twirled buzzing overhead, and then thrown over the horns of a fleeing bull. Having lassoed his target, each cowboy turned sharply left so that the full length of the lariat could fly from its coil behind the saddle on the right side, without entangling either rider or mount. Feeling itself lassoed, the indomitable beast thrashed in the undergrowth and turned to level its deadly horns at its tormentors. Frequently, it gored the horse, and the horse, crazed with pain and fear, reared up, threatening to throw its rider onto the bull’s lethal half-­moon. Here is where the cowboy’s poncho could save his life by distracting the raging bull. It could be thrown on the bull’s head or simply on the ground, where he would waste time goring it while the cowboy regained control of his mount. Dismounted, the cowboy could wave his poncho in the manner of a bullfighter’s cape, without audience or applause. Hopefully he would survive repeated charges until a colleague could arrive to twist the bull’s tail with enough force to topple it. Once toppled, the animal had its legs tied together and a hole cut between its nostrils. Then a rope was threaded through the bull’s nose so that it could be led to the godmother by the cowboy, who tied the free ends of the bloody cord to his horse’s tail. After delivering his prize to the 72 · The Vortex

godmother, the cowboy loosened one end of the rope and tugged it out through the bull’s nose without dismounting. I was enjoying this spectacle from the vantage of an agile, energetic, ­coral-­ colored stallion that immediately joined in pursuit of the fleeing bulls and closed the distance with marvelous celerity. Habituated by frequent repetition and without guidance from me, my little steed ran close behind, and then almost beside, a particular red bull, so that I could lasso it. I threw the lasso inexpertly several times, without success. Then suddenly the bull turned and plunged its horns into my horse’s flank. Stumbling, the horse bucked furiously, threw me off his back, and wobbled away, becoming entangled in the entrails that slid from its opened belly and eventually collapsing on the grass, where the bull finished it off by goring it furiously over and over. Realizing my predicament, the other cowboys raced in my direction, and the murderous bull retreated through the underbrush, with Franco and Millán in hot pursuit, competing to see which of the two would be able to catch it by the tail. Correa gave me his horse, and as I anxiously joined the chase, I saw Millán lean over to seize the bull’s tail—when it suddenly turned again, this time hooking a horn into the man’s ear. Passing through Millán’s head, the horn poked out of his other ear. Pulling Millán’s body off his horse and brandishing it like a rag doll, the bull charged ahead. The dead man’s dragging legs opened a deep furrow in the high grass. Deaf to our clamor, the bull slowed to a trot, stopped, and, stepping on one of the corpse’s legs, with a twist of its muscled neck, as thick as a tree trunk, wrenched off the corpse’s head, which sailed away through the air. Then the homicidal bull stood over the mutilated torso and faced us triumphantly, prepared to defend its prize, until Franco’s Winchester put a pair of bullets between its bulging eyes. We called for help, but there was none within earshot. I galloped around the area and still found none. Finally, I encountered a couple of cowboys, each of whom had lassoed a bull and still had it tied by the nose to his horse’s tail. Upon hearing my cries, each immediately drew his knife and cut loose his prize to respond with all possible speed. And we galloped back, looking paler than the bloodless corpse.

Back at the scene of the disaster, four cowboys were carrying the tongue, viscera, and other choice portions of the murderous bull toward the shade of some low trees. Franco, his shirt covered with blood, was venting his Part One · 73

agitation at a knot of taciturn hired hands, and the corpse had been laid out on the trunk of a fallen palm tree, covered by his poncho, until rigor mortis set in. We went to look for the lost head among the trampled weeds but couldn’t find it. Meanwhile, the dogs gathered around the dead bull, licking its horns. The sun had climbed high in the sky when we got back. Correa stood by the corpse waving a branch to keep the flies away. Franco had gone to a nearby estero to wash the blood out of his shirt, and Millán’s colleagues were making plans to dance at his wake, ­llanero-­style. “It would have been fine with me,” grumbled one, “if he and Correa had brained each other yesterday in our presence. But saying that a bull killed him, well, that doesn’t quite work when we clearly heard the shots, you know. And there certainly weren’t no call to drag him around and lose his head, and all. I mean, that’s a real sin, if you ask me.” “You haven’t heard how it happened, man?” “Oh yeah, I heard. The victim, Millán. The murderer, a bull. The accomplices, us. And the innocent ones, you. Ha! Yeah, I heard just fine. That’s why I’m leaving right now, to carry the news, so they can dig the grave and arrange for the music and booze.” And with that, he left rapidly, muttering threats. I did not want to look at the corpse. I felt only revulsion at the thought of the livid, broken, incomplete body that had housed an enemy spirit, one that I’d had to discipline with my own hand. I recalled those nasty little bloodshot eyes that had hounded my every move, waiting to catch me without a revolver in my belt. Where were those beady eyes now? Dangling from some bush, sightless, repulsive, and dripping? What had become of that entire obtuse head, bursting with malice, hatred, and evil? I’d heard a crunch as the curved horn slipped in one ear, seen the tip poke out of the other, watched his hat pop off comically. Then I’d seen the bull project the head into the air like a grizzly volleyball. But what happened to it next? Where did it bleed out? Might the bull have buried it with its hooves when it churned the mud around the dead man before being shot? Slowly, the funeral procession passed before me. A man on foot led the horse that served as the hearse, followed by a string of silent riders. With disgust, I viewed the mortal remains. Athwart the saddle, with its belly to the sky, the decapitated body began its final journey with its rigid fingers brushing through the long grass of the llano, as if to touch it one last time. Jingling on his naked heels were the wicked spurs that nobody had thought to remove, and at the other end of the body, between the hanging arms, 74 · The Vortex

was the stump of the severed neck, with its yellowish, rootlike nerves still oozing. Only the lower jaw had escaped detachment to accompany the departing cranium. The teeth jiggled with the horse’s steps, as if laughing. That macabrely uproarious laugh, that smile without lips, without a face, without a soul, without eyes to humanize it, seemed to be making fun of me, threatening me—promising revenge. Even now, I occasionally remember that hellish laugh, and shudder.

Later on, when we’d started to smoke and chat noisily, Franco said: “Looks like we’re going to have to suspend the roundup until things get back to normal. Let’s swing by La Maporita to get those horses. The men best mounted should come with me, and the others should continue to Hato Grande with the deceased and the godmother. Tell them to expect us there around sundown.” I asked one of the cowboys to ride ahead to Hato Grande to spare Alicia a fright. I expected that, scanning the horizon for my arrival, she might spy the funeral procession from afar. She would fear that I was the splayed corpse, of course, and the shock might be too much for her fragile nerves. Correa indicated places where he and I had been the night before, but I recognized nothing, so similar did it all seem. I noticed a few signs of the storm in tousled branches, tall grasses leaning at drunken angles, the occasional devastated palm. Meanwhile, I could not free myself of visions of Millán’s grisly smile, and I felt an anxiety that I had never before experienced. I wanted to flee those brutal plains of suffocating heat where death rides behind the saddle of every cowboy. The nightmarish atmosphere of the place was undermining my well-­being. I needed to get back to civilization, to a quiet life of comfort and meditation. Feeling out of sorts, I had lagged behind the rest of the party when the dogs started barking. Soon the sniffing, howling pack had surrounded a pond on the banks of which stood a curtain of high reeds. My companions spurred in that direction, firing their guns, and I could tell that a group of Indians had been surprised at the pond, and they were attempting to escape by crawling away as fast as possible through the long grass on all fours. Only the rippling tips of the grass gave them away. Without uttering a sound, their women allowed themselves to be torn apart by the dogs and slaughtered by my companions, who also shot down any brave who tried to resist them with his bow. Within seconds, however, the Indians came at us from all Part One · 75

sides, trying to cut the hamstrings of our horses and kill us with their clubs. Decimated by our gunfire, they gave up after a charge or two and raced away, to be pursued on horseback until they reached denser undergrowth. “Come, Charlemagne! Come Dollar!” I found myself calling the dogs off one poor wretch who kept doubling back to escape them. Despite everything, he refused to drop his string of fish until my horse was almost on top of him. I pulled the reins so as not to trample him and was astonished to see him turn and, seeing my face, open his arms. “My dear Intendant! It’s me, Pipa! Have pity on me, for God’s sake!” Without waiting for an answer, he sprang up behind my saddle to escape the dogs, embracing me with great effusion. “I’m sorry, so sorry about taking your horse! I can explain.” To save me from the ravages of this ersatz Indian, Correa came to my assistance, knocking Pipa to the ground with the butt of his gun. But it took longer for the poor wretch to fall than to climb back up, chattering nonstop: “We’re friends, see? I am his wife’s personal attendant.” “Why look! It’s that thieving, ­cattle-­rustling good-­for-­nothing that we’ve been after for years and years. The one who set fire to El Hatico!” “No, please! You’re making a big mistake. I’m the wrong man! I was a prisoner of the Indians, who made me be with them naked until the intendant here, who knows me very well, rescued me. I’ll be going back to work for his wife now.” Pipa wept with humiliation to think of the horrible calumny. Cattle rustling, indeed! And simulating shame at his nudity, but really to avoid the teeth of the leaping, snapping dogs, he pulled his body against my back and lifted his legs atop mine. Feeling charitable, I allowed him to stay there as we proceeded on our way, while the other cowboys protested and promised to castrate him for his crimes at the first opportunity.

As soon as he got his confidence back, the captive launched into a mendacious speech, interrupted only to ask that the cowboys should ride on ahead, please: “It’s not for my sake,” he explained to me. “It’s for yours. One of their guns might go off accidentally when our backs are turned.” And then, with the dulcet tone of blandishments to a lover’s ear, he continued: “So, how could it be possible that you, the future intendant of Villavicencio, were going to arrive there without a public reception? The worry kept 76 · The Vortex

me awake that night. So, after you and your lady went to sleep, I took your horse to carry the news of your impending arrival . . . with every intention of returning immediately, which is why I didn’t take the trouble to saddle my own mare, you see. But then when I heard that you were in trouble for bringing the lady from Bogotá, I studied the matter. With you in jail, who would save me from my godfather? And the authorities were definitely going to confiscate your possessions, so to help you and me, why, I saw I should ride over to Casanare until my godfather forgot about me, and come back to return your horse after things got sorted out! So here I am. But when I got around here, the employees of this fellow Barrera accused me of rustling cattle and tried to haul me over to El Hatico, and I escaped, but they robbed me of everything, including my hat! Without a horse, I fell prey to the Guahibos. But where are my manners! How is your wife?” In any other situation, I’d have enjoyed the inventiveness of his self-­ exculpatory little story. But with darkness falling, I could think only of catching up with the funeral cortege in order to protect Alicia from a dangerous fright. In the dimness of dusk, we met two horsemen whose faces I couldn’t make out. Franco recognized them, however. “Where are the men with the corpse?” “They tossed it in a ditch because it started to stink too much. They left. They don’t want to work for you no more.” “We quit, too,” added the others. “Fine. I’ve got no stomach for a bunch of lazy good-­for-­nothings. Anybody that wants his wages can come get them at the ranch house.” “We prefer our freedom,” they replied all together. “Which way did the others go?” “Toward the Guachiría.” “Good-­bye, then!” And they galloped into the night. The remaining four of us pushed on toward the ranch house, where we barely perceived the blurry, distant, winking light of fire. I forced Pipa to get off my horse, under protest. Trailing slightly behind, his whitish shape pursued us like a ghost in the night.

I trembled with anxiety as we approached the corral of Hato Grande. A large fire illuminated the yard of the house, and we could see that all the normal gathering places were empty. I glanced in the direction of Barrera’s tents Part One · 77

and saw that they were gone. I spurred for the gate, but my horse, dazzled by the blaze, refused to enter. Mauco and a few women came to meet me: “For God’s sake, get out of here! They’ll get you for sure!” “What’s happened here? Where is Alicia? Where is Alicia?” “Old man Zubieta is asleep in his grave, and we’re sitting up with the fire!” “What’s happened here! Spit it out!” “Your plans didn’t work out so well!” The threat of violence finally got it out of them: there had been a crime. When Zubieta failed to get up yesterday morning, they’d finally taken the kitchen door off its hinges and gone in to find the old man hanging from the hammock rope. His wrists were bound together, and his pudgy body swayed gently back and forth as he wiggled, still alive at that point, but not for long. He had been unable to utter a sound because they had put several loops of twine around the base of his tongue. Barrera refused to take a look at him, but by the time the judge arrived, the bastard was ready with the most lurid accusations against Franco and me. He gave sworn testimony that we had threatened the kindly old man for three days, trying to find out where he’d buried treasure. Failing that, on the night of the crime, we had climbed into the kitchen through the roof and tied up Zubieta, then divided into three groups to excavate simultaneously in the floor of his bedroom, the banana grove, and the corral. The judge collected affidavits from each of Barrera’s witnesses and left, escorted by a party of Barrera’s men, that very afternoon. The deceased was buried in one of the three excavations, under the big mango shade tree, possibly near his ultimately ­never-­uncovered jars of gold coins, without the requisite prayers or the customary amenities: the new footwear, the handkerchief tied around his face to keep his jaw shut, or the nine nights of dancing. And to make matters worse, they’d had a hard time keeping the pigs from rooting in the old man’s grave after they’d dug it up once already and eaten his arm, grunting horrifically. I felt so dizzy, hearing their story, I’d not even noticed that one of the old women telling it was Sebastiana. Recognizing her at last, I reiterated my shrill inquiry: “Where is Alicia? Where is my Alicia?” “They’re gone. They went and left us!” “Alicia? What are you saying about Alicia?” “Griselda took her.” Resting my elbows on the gate of the corral, I wept. It was an easy sort of weeping, without sobs or convulsions. It was as if the fount of disaster, 78 · The Vortex

flooding my eyes, had relieved my heart in such an unknown way that, for a moment, I was insensible to all else. I turned my afflicted countenance to each of my friends, unashamed of my tears, and observed them looking back at me, as if in a dream. Everyone came to console me, even Pipa, who had found some of my old clothes to cover his nakedness. The women started roasting meat for dinner, and Franco insisted that I ought to go lie down. But when he said that Alicia and Griselda were just a couple of sluts that we would soon replace with better ones, I felt a volcano erupt in my chest, and leaping on my pony, I madly charged away, to ride the sluts down and kill them. In my vertigo, I saw Barrera, headless like Millán, tied by his heels to the tail of my pony, gradually coming apart as I dragged him along, until his atomized body vanished altogether in the dust of the llano. So blinded was I by fury and jealousy that only after a couple of hours did I realize that I was actually galloping behind Franco. Within minutes we arrived at La Maporita and found it deserted. Alicia was really gone, probably lying in Barrera’s hammock, riddled with concupiscence, at that very moment. My desperate howls echoed in the immense, glittering firmament, as Fidel Franco struck a match and commenced setting fire to his own house.

The tiny, lifted tongue of flame made the edge of the thatched roof vibrate, and suddenly the narrow flickering opened into a crackling opalescent wave that illuminated the entire surroundings of the house. In the blink of an eye, the leaves of the banana grove dissolved in fire; whirling incendiary fragments flew to the thatched kitchen and other outbuildings. Like the maparane viper that bites its own tail, the tall flames twisted back on themselves, sullying the stars with their smoke, and, aided by the fiendish wind, began to lob balls of flame far out onto the grassland. Our horses retreated in panic toward the ­russet-­hued waters of the riverbank, and from there I watched the fiery collapse of the house where I’d cherished my fond dreams of domestic bliss. Within the ­still-­standing walls of what had been Alicia’s bedroom, the flames rocked back and forth like a cradle. Mesmerized, I watched the creeping fleece of golden devastation with no notion of the danger. Franco turned away, cursing his life. I proclaimed that we should both hurl ourselves into the conflagration. Alarmed by my insanity, he reminded me of our duty to pursue the harlots and avenge the Part One · 79

incredible offense that they had done us. And, galloping, galloping among brilliant, enormous summits of light, we eventually observed that the house at Hato Grande was burning also, its howling inhabitants having retreated to the nearby woods. Fields were ablaze now on both sides of the river. The flames snaked up the hanging vines and leapt to the crowns of the moriche palms, which promptly exploded in pyrotechnic fury. Tiny fuming rockets arched in all directions, confusing the orderly march of flames avid to extend themselves all across the plains and raise their crimson pendants into the clouds, leaving a trail of scorched earth. Behind each devouring phalanx of flame and accompanying mane of smoke, isolated fires continued to burn on the charred bodies of animals, and along the curving horizon the headless trunks of palms guttered like enormous, untrimmed candles. The crackle of disintegrating underbrush, the eerie sound of desperate wildlife, the pounding hooves of panicked cattle, the acrid odor of singed flesh—all fueled my growing exaltation. I was elated to see such ruin in the wake of my disappointed dreams, elated to feel myself carried toward the distant jungle by a phosphorescent ocean that would separate me definitively from the life I’d always known. I felt fierce satisfaction at the thought that all indication of our hoofprints would be obliterated by a trackless layer of ash. What remained now of all my efforts, my idealism, my ambitions? What had my perseverance availed me against the fickleness of fortune? God and love had both abandoned me. Surrounded by flames on all sides, I uttered a satanic laugh.

80 · The Vortex

Part Two

II

Oh Jungle, wedded to silence, mother of solitude and mist! What malignant spirit left me to languish in your emerald prison? Your lofty cupolas perpetually block my aspirations for an open sky that I now glimpse only fleetingly, in your anguished twilights, when unquiet evening breezes stir the treetops and shards of light break through the canopy far above my head. Occasionally a honeyed ray penetrates your deep labyrinth, beckoning my imagination to my childhood home, where once I strode mountain meadows to ogle snowcapped peaks! Where is the sun that strolled the hills at sunset? Where are the cloudscapes of gold and purple? Where will the moon hang her silver lantern? Will dawn never come? Oh Jungle, you have stolen the horizon from my eyes, leaving only a ceaseless monotony of green. You are a somber cathedral, where unknown gods whisper endless liturgies, promising your majestic trees, ancient as the Garden of Eden, that they will surely live forever. Your tribe of growing things is the most variegated of the earth, and the most fraternal. Creepers and vines complete the uni-

versal embrace that the massive limbs cannot give. You share the distress of each falling leaf. A multitude of echoes, as one voice, laments a falling trunk, and a multitude of new green life sprouts on the forest floor in the clearing opened by its fall. Unyielding as a cosmic force, you are a mystery of creation. But your unbearable perpetuity has led me to love what is fleeting. Give me not the vaulting forest giants but the languid orchid, a thing ephemeral, like human life, and quickly withering, like human illusions. Oh Jungle, let me escape your sickly shadows, your living cemetery, your primordial kingdom of agony and resuscitation, where one breathes the miasmas of all your dead and decaying former subjects. Let me go back to my own land. Let me unwalk the path of blood and tears that brought me here. I want to see the sandy plain shimmer on a dog day afternoon. Let me go back where one’s eyes can roam freely across the landscape and one’s spirit can rise freely into the light. How was it that, in pursuit of a woman, I came here seeking Vengeance, the implacable goddess who only smiles over tombs?

Better to forget the miserable time that my friends and I spent wandering in the wilderness like bandits! Accused of a crime that we did not commit, we defied injustice and raised the banner of rebellion. Who dared confront our fury? No one! The innumerable byways of the llanos lay trampled flat by the galloping hooves of our ponies, and never did our fugitive campfire glow two nights running in the same place. Finally, under a tangle of palms, we improvised a semipermanent refuge. There we piled our few possessions, things that Mauco and Sebastiana had saved from the blaze at Hato Grande and delivered to us. Then they left for Orocué, to gather further intelligence. That was the last we heard of those two. The four of us who remained—Fidel Franco, Antonio Correa, Pipa, and I—took turns climbing a large palm tree, watching for any sign of people—watching especially for the smoke of three fires set in a triangle, the signal that we had agreed upon. No one was paying attention, however, much less pursuing us. Everyone had forgotten us. I’d become a human residue of sorrows and afflictions. At night, hunger gnawed at our stomachs like the vampire bat common to the llanos, keeping us awake. The rainy season would soon begin, and we considered going our separate ways or seeking asylum together in Venezuela. I thought of don Rafo, who might be returning to La Maporita and could take us to 82 · The Vortex

Bogotá. We lay low, waiting for him on the plains outside Tame, for many days. Nothing. Franco declared that he, for one, would continue a nomadic existence rather than live under threat of arrest for murder or desertion. And I cast my lot with him. Our common misfortune had made us exiles, so we might as well face our vicissitudes together. And, together, we set out for the Vichada rubber fields.

Pipa guided us to the wild banana groves of Macucuana, on the bank of the great, murky Meta River, just below its confluence with the Guanapalo. The Guahibo Indians who lived there were partly acculturated and willing to accept our presence as long as we did not object to their minimal clothing, left their young girls alone, and told our Winchesters “not to thunder.” One afternoon Pipa appeared with five members of the tribe, who hesitated to approach until we had tied up the dogs. Squatting in the weeds, they rose slowly to observe us, ready to flee at the slightest hint of danger. Finally Pipa led each of them to us by the hand, and each received an embrace signifying our peaceful intentions, to which each replied with a phrase of protocol: “Dogs quiet, Indian like brother, happy heart.” They were muscular young men with dark complexions, whose herculean backs quivered with fear when they eyed our weapons. They had left their bows and long arrows in their canoe, the fragile craft that was about to carry us over the unknown waters of a wild river, impelled by implacable fate to seek refuge in the jungle for no greater crimes than misfortune and resisting injustice. The time had come to release the horses whose fleetness had protected us in adversity. Joyously, the noble animals reclaimed exactly what their owners were abandoning at that moment: the glorious freedom of the open plains where we had invested our hopes, dreams, and youth. When my sweaty chestnut stallion shook himself and galloped away, neighing tremulously, on the trail of a distant watering hole—I felt defenseless and alone. I fixed my melancholy eyes on the horizon like a convict sentenced to death, watching the sun set over the landscape of his childhood for the last time. Before descending the slope to the dugout canoe that awaited at water’s edge, I turned to gaze into the hazy distance where the open plains met the sky and the palm trees were waving farewell. That immensity had wounded me, yet I hated to leave it, even so. The llanos had been decisive in my existence and would always be a part of me. Yes, I do understand that when Part Two · 83

I die, all images will dwindle to nothingness in my sightless eyes, and yet still, somehow, I always imagine my soul’s final, fluttering ascent toward the supreme constellation amid the pink and opal brushstrokes of a sunset on the llanos.

Our dugout canoe floated downstream like an extralong coffin through the extralong late afternoon shadows. The parallel riverbanks, with their somber vegetation and multitudinous insect life, filed past in ominous silence. Without a ripple or a speck of foam, the dark water seemed pulled inextricably toward a hidden void or vortex. Without words, we watched the passing riverbanks glow paler with the disappearance of the sun, and all nature seemed to mourn. Or perhaps it was my own sadness that threw a pall over everything. However it may be, I felt at one with the universe, so that the tiniest burble of water or most distant bird call echoed loudly inside of me. My own gloom softly penetrated and permeated the dusk, thickening it, bit by bit, and erasing the visual world: the silhouettes of mechanically moving paddlers, the scrolling riparian forest, the perpetual line of the immobile river. We landed in a backwater where steps had been cut into the clay of the riverbank to make a miniature port. Several canoes floated there, tied together. Up a muddy trail lost in the undergrowth, we emerged into a clearing of felled trees where a thatched hut awaited us. Everything seemed so deserted and quiet that, mindful of a potential ambush, we hesitated to go inside. Pipa interrogated the natives who had brought us to that place, and he reported that the occupants of the hut had run away because of our dogs. Our indigenous paddlers then asked my permission to sleep where the canoes were tied. When they had left, Fidel ordered Correa to sleep beside Pipa to make sure he didn’t sneak away that night. Fidel then removed the dogs’ collars and slung his hammock and mine. However, when it was completely dark, he moved both hammocks to different places. I climbed into my hammock with my carbine, turned my back to it, and tried to sleep.

Pipa was always declaring his unconditional loyalty toward me, and I eventually got the whole story of his exploits, both amazing and terrifying. 84 · The Vortex

Imagine. He had mastered the difficult art of archery using flaming, ­poison-­ tipped arrows. This was the most fearsome weapon of the indigenous. Pipa had also mastered the art of escaping his enemies by going underwater, putting up his nose to breathe occasionally among the reeds. Dogs that paddled above him, as he lay on the bottom like an alligator, would get pulled under and disemboweled. His pursuers, whether cowboys or Indians, would hear an insignificant splash among the rushes, then silence, and Pipa would enjoy a dog dinner later on. Cooking was what first took him to the llanos, in fact. An adolescent Pipa had worked as a kitchen boy several months at the famous Hato de San Emigdio, when it was in its glory days, learning to be a llanero. On the great roundups he’d be out roping and riding all day with the cowboys, then collect wood and haul water for the carnivorous repast. And long before dawn they’d awaken him with a kick to make their bitter coffee before starting out. They didn’t help him load the stubborn mule that carried the kitchen pots and provisions, didn’t help him lead it, either. They didn’t even tell him where they were going. Instead, they just rode away and left him to catch up, listening for their voices on the still shadowy plains, urging the uncooperative mule into a slow-­motion trot. The worst was that Pipa also worked for the main ranch cook, according to her, anyway. She gave him orders, at least, and the scruffy little thing, limp as a rag, obeyed them. Until one day, he snapped. He’d spread leaves as a sort of tablecloth upon which to empty the pot full of boiled meat. Then, like the rest, he reached with his dirty hand to cut a piece of meat for himself, using the knife that all llaneros carry. That’s when the cook’s boyfriend, an old geezer who was jealous of the cook’s affections and therefore disliked the boy and harassed him continually, called for more meat. And when Pipa didn’t obey him fast enough, the man grabbed the boy’s ear and pushed his face into the pot of broth. Enraged, the boy reflexively reached out with his blade and slit the boyfriend’s belly open completely from side to side, leaving his innards on the table like more boiled sausages. The owner had the rambunctious boy securely tied up and charged two cowboys with killing him later that day, out in a swamp, to dispose of the body more easily. Fortunately for Pipa, the execution party was interrupted by Indians fishing in the swamp. These happily tore apart the ­would-­be executioners and freed their lone prisoner, taking him with them. Then Pipa lived naked in the wilderness for twenty years, helping all the major tribes resist the depredations of the white man in the regions of Capanaparo and Vichada. He’d worked as a rubber tapper along the Inírida and Part Two · 85

Vaupés Rivers, along the Orinoco and the Guaviare, too, among countless peoples of the endless forest: Piapocos and Guahibos, Banivas and Bares, among Cuivas, Carijonas, and Huitotos. The Guahibos, particularly, he’d turned into perfect guerrilla fighters. It was among the Guahibos that he exercised his true ascendancy, and he could often be found in their encampments. Pipa led war parties of Guahibos to raid ranches and settlements, repeatedly, along the Pauto River. He’d fallen prisoner several times, once when stung in the foot by a freshwater ray, for example, and another time when he was burning with fever. But he always convinced his captors that he was an unfortunate cowboy kidnapped and enslaved by the Indians in Venezuela. He’d subsequently spent time in various jails, invariably as a model prisoner. No sooner freed, though, he’d go back to his roving life among the Indians. “I can be your guiding light,” he said, “if you put me in charge of the expedition. I know my way perfectly, by water and land, and I know people in many places. We’ll find your friends who’re tapping rubber, wherever we have go, even the end of the world. Just don’t let mulato Correa tease me anymore. It’s not Christian, and if he doesn’t stop, he’ll be sorry.”

At the same time, I felt invaded by misanthropy, throwing a pall over everything, disjointing my powers of reason, throwing me briefly into quite a state. Grief and depression paralyzed me, made me a somnambulist. I lay unresponsive in my hammock like a serpent changing its skin, sluggishly saturated and rendered half unconscious by an excess of bile. The problem was that everyone avoided mentioning Alicia. They were feeling sorry for me! They regarded me as a beaten man! The idea brought blasphemies to my lips, a diaphanous, ­blood-­red veil floating before my eyes. Did Fidel feel these same emotions? He did seem saddened, in the small confidences that he made to me, no doubt empathetic with my feelings. Fidel had lost everything, unexpectedly, and in one fell swoop, yet he said that he felt freer and more powerful, as if his misfortune was somehow medicine for his spirit. So why was I whining like a eunuch? What did Alicia have that I hadn’t found in other women? She was merely an incident, a lingering consequence of reckless, youthful indiscretions, and her disappearance from the scene was entirely appropriate. In fact, I ought to thank Barrera, I really should, for taking her off my hands. 86 · The Vortex

The manifold flaws of my former lover became quite apparent. For starters, she was ignorant, capricious, and ill-­tempered. Her personality was indistinct, ill-­defined. To the naked eye, without the lens of amorous passion, Alicia appeared common and ordinary, the sort of woman who makes you wonder what her suitors see in her. Her eyebrows were scanty, her neck, short, her face, conventionally pretty at best. Of the science of kissing, she had not the slightest idea, and her hands were incapable of any sort of caress. She never once chose a perfume different from what her friends liked, so she smelled just the same as all the rest. You see what I mean: undistinguished. So why suffer for her, then? Why, indeed? One must forget, laugh, start over. My destiny called for it. My comrades wished for it. Pipa played the maracas and sang a wonderful little old-­time ditty with a comforting, ironic tone: Sunday, I saw her at mass. Monday, I made her laugh. Tuesday, I said we should wed. Wednesday, we did what I said. Thursday, she left me to moan. Friday, I missed her, and then, Saturday, I started again. For I don’t like living alone. I experienced an almost painful rebirth of strength—a confluence of rancor, cynicism, impenitence, and desire for revenge. I sneered at hope and tenderness and serenity, except for occasionally, when a soft breeze from the past touched my chest and reawakened something. But only very slightly.

The aboriginal people who visited us were timid and clever, and all as alike as fruits of the same tree. They came naked, bearing gifts of bananas and sweet manioc in little baskets of woven palm frond, which they deposited in some prominent, visible place. And the paddlers of our canoe came with smoked fish for us to eat. We went out to meet these tentative visitors, taking care that our dogs not growl, and by means of a spirited and prolonged banter in pidgin Spanish it was decided that they would be installed in one end of our hut, convenient to the woods and other pathways of escape. Indiscreetly, I inquired about their women, seeing that they had none with them. Pipa hastened to Part Two · 87

explain my indiscretion. Such inquiries were not to be made among these people whose women had so often suffered the white man’s abuses. Only as they gained trust would we see their women, and then, only the older ones. Later on, the older women would judge whether we were well enough behaved to meet the younger ones. Two days later, they appeared, the respectable matrons of the forest in paradise suits, with their flaccid, ­gourd-­like breasts, and each one carried on her head a container of newly fermented chicha. The foam of the corn beer had splattered their graying hair and also moistened the wrinkles of their weathered cheeks. They served the tingly alcoholic beverage to each of us in gourds, placing these in our hands with shamanic gravity. They grumbled a bit, however, when only Pipa was able to drink what he was given. Later, when the rain began, the women lay down by the fire and fell immediately asleep like so many shrunken, mummified gorillas, while their men dozed in string hammocks through the lazy heat of the afternoon. We fell silent, too, on our side of the hut, hearing the rain cascade through the green branches above us, producing a mist that surrounded us oppressively on all sides. “We need a plan,” announced Franco, “to do something. We need to get out of here, next week.” “These women have come to provision us for the trip,” explained Pipa. “When the provisions are ready, we’ll paddle up this river and cross over the wide water at Caviona. We’ll make a portage there, crossing overland to the Vichada. It takes seven days, and we have to carry all our equipment. Only problem is, none of the Indians want to go along as porters. I’m trying to convince them. To sweeten the deal, we need to buy some things in Orocué.” “What will we use for money?” I admonished him. “Just leave that to me. Just have faith in me and be nice to the tribe, please. That’s all I ask. We need salt, fishhooks, fishing line, tobacco, matches, and mosquito netting. What else? Everything else you need, because I don’t really need anything else. And we don’t know what we’re actually going to need, anyway. Anything can happen.” “Do we need to sell our saddles and bridles?” “There’s nobody to buy them. The Indians don’t use saddles. Just leave them. No horses, only canoes, from now on.” “And how are we going to bankroll this project?” “All we have to do is visit the herons and egrets that teem at a place I know called Las Hermosas. It’s a ‘garcero.’ Know what that is? A place 88 · The Vortex

where the birds flock so incredibly that their feathers carpet the ground. Together, we can gather four pounds, at least, of the most valuable ornamental feathers on the international market, coveted by ladies’ hatmakers throughout the civilized world. After that we can sell a handful a week to cover all our expenses. Whenever you’re ready, I know the way. It’s not close by, though.” “That doesn’t matter. We start tomorrow!”

Blessed be the trail that led us to the garcero! In an area of seasonally flooded forest, dotted with white egrets like petals floating on the water, more egrets passed in ceaseless formations across the turquoise sky that could be glimpsed through interruptions in the forest canopy while, farther on, fledgling egret chicks swarmed and bustled on the palms that arched over the water. At our approach, the startled snowy petals rose into the air, creating a perfect cacophony. They circled with excited cries and then, just as suddenly, disbanded and, half closing their slow-­moving wings of silvery silk, settled into the water. Pensive and silent stood the enormous red-­crested marabou stork, with its heroic stature, its martial bearing, and its swordlike beak. “The soldier,” they call him. Around the marabou fluttered all manner of smaller long-­ legged, web-­footed birds: the scarlet corocoras, whose beauty puts the Egyptian ibis to shame; the blue, g­ olden-­crested widgeons; and pink ducks like vivid hallucinations. And ever again the egrets wheeled briefly and loudly over the busy throng, their feathers raining onto the water’s surface like scattered petals to mark their passage. I felt as dazzled, I confess, as when in the innocence of my youth I’d listened to angelic choirs holding dozens of long white candles. To reach our goal we had to pass over utterly transparent water. Below us, we could see a submerged army of alligators moving around beneath the overloaded tree branches, from which chicks and eggs occasionally dropped with a splash as the quarrelsome egrets jostled for nesting space. Piranhas, with their leaden backs and pink-­scaled bellies and teeth capable of stripping the flesh off anything that crossed their path, moved in multitudinous, synchronized shoals through the sunken forest. Because of them, swimming in these waters was to be avoided, especially if one had an open wound to whet the piranhas’ ravenous taste for blood. The piranhas were not the only obstacle, however. In addition, resting on the bottom, one observed Part Two · 89

the treacherous freshwater ray, with its gelatinous wings and long, poisonous stinger, and also the electric eels that deliver a paralyzing shock at the slightest touch. One observed the glistening nacre and gold palometa fish, as well, busily stirring up bottom sediment to conceal themselves from the snapping jaws of freshwater dolphins. This immense aquarium reached as far as one could see in all directions, and on the p­ ewter-­colored surface of the water floated countless precious feathers in perfect condition, simply for the taking. We spread out across the water, floating on the most precarious little craft and makeshift rafts, to collect them. The Indians occasionally stirred the depths or beat the brush, here or there, for fear of alligators and boas. It was they who retrieved the largest handfuls of plumes. None came to harm on this occasion, although some plumes cost many lives, along the way, before decorating the hats of fashionable women across the ocean.

That afternoon I surrendered to melancholy and vague stirrings of romantic discontent. Why was I so obsessed with art and love? To whom could I give these feather bouquets of startling whiteness? If only I had someone with whom to contemplate the sublime beauty of the garcero! It was Alicia, wrapped in a veil of apparent philosophical rumination, who had returned to disturb my quietude, obviously. I tried to apply my newfound realism to the image of the intruder. Meanwhile, we laboriously retraced our steps across marshes and along steep banks until we found the place where we had left our canoes. From there, with the Indians poling the canoes along the sinuous water roads so well known to them, we completed the return trip to the hut from which we had launched our expedition to the garcero. We arrived at the muddy dock just as night fell. The wind brought us the sound of a baby’s wail, and when we approached the hut, several young Indian women ran away from it into the forest, paying no heed to Pipa’s explanation, loudly offered in the native language, of our friendly intentions. The Indians’ string hammocks were slung in all available locations, and a pot of chicha simmered on the fire. Gradually, as the fire burned more brightly, the new inhabitants of the hut presented themselves, this time accompanied by their women. Each woman placed her hand on a man’s shoulder to signal that they were married. One woman pointed to where her husband lay in his hammock, and 90 · The Vortex

she showed us her lactating breasts, saying that she had given birth that day. Pipa took the opportunity to instruct us, in front of the new mother, on the childbirth customs of the tribe. When the mother feels that the time has come, she goes alone into the forest and returns, some time later, already washed and carrying the newborn to present to its father. The father must then retire to his hammock and drink the preparations that his wife provides to help him recover from the nausea and fevers that have accompanied the childbirth. As if she understood Pipa’s lecture to us in Spanish, the young mother made adamant signs, at intervals, affirming the accuracy of his account. The indisposed husband whimpered faintly in his hammock, his head wrapped in leaves, his hand holding a drinking gourd outstretched for a refill of chicha. The women who had fled were the young, unmarried ones, and Pipa indicated that we could each choose one of them when the chief, the most ancient of the elders, decided to recognize our joining his group. But we should not expect these young women to welcome us with smiles and open arms. To the contrary, they would have to be hunted, pursued through the forest, until finally run to ground. The males’ superior force must be demonstrated to them before they reciprocate with female submission and tenderness. My interest was not piqued.

Then I noticed that, obviously miffed, the head of the clan was behaving coldly, even contemptuously, toward me. I tried to win him over in various ways, exhibiting endless fascination with the tribe’s traditions and legends and with the songs sung by its braves on the warpath. But my courtesy was profitless, because these wandering forest tribes with a rudimentary culture lack gods and heroes, or even clear notions of past and future. As it happened, in my knapsack I had brought two gray ducklings from the garcero. Finding one of them dead the next morning, I sat down by the fire to pluck it for my dogs’ breakfast. But, seeing me do so, the chief became agitated, seizing his arrows and shouting and waving his war club at me. The women quickly gathered up the feathers and scattered them in the morning breeze. My companions encircled me and took away my carbine to prevent my dismantling the audacious old man. The geezer had dropped to the ground Part Two · 91

and covered his face with his hands. He began bidding everyone farewell and kissed the earth, darkening it with small dabs of slobber. Then began what seemed a series of seizures, and he finally became quite rigid, to the horror of his naked harem. Pipa saved the day by sprinkling ashes in the old man’s ears so that he could not hear the call of Death. Pipa explained that the souls of these barbarians reside normally in the bodies of various totem animals. Each member of the tribe identified with a particular animal, and the chief ’s totem was clearly the gray duck. Seeing his totem animal plucked and about to be fed to dogs might kill him, apparently—which the tribe would likely regard as a homicide. Immediately, I drew the other gray duckling from my knapsack and let it flutter about, creating an enormous impression on my hosts. Transfixed at the sight of this prodigious miracle of apparent resurrection, the chief watched the bird’s zigzag flight ecstatically until it disappeared over the breadth of the nearby river. The childish incident served to endow me with a supernatural aura in the natives’ eyes, conferring awesome mastery over souls and destinies. None of the Indians would look at me afterward, yet they seemed to think of nothing else. Two strapping lads volunteered, without opposition from their wives, to join the expedition. I’ve never been able to remember their Indian names because the translations, “Forest” and “Savanna,” served so well. I embraced the boys to signify my acceptance of their offer, whereupon the two immediately got down their paddles from the rafters and began to examine other equipment for the trip. They gave special care to the punting poles used to move a dugout canoe through accumulations of driftwood or to push it upstream in shallow water. Busily, they rewound and retied the fi ­ ber-­reinforced fork at the end of each pole, then tested it in the dirt. Meanwhile, the women had begun shredding the manioc root that would constitute our primary victual for the expedition. Jungle manioc often contains a natural poison that must be extracted by shredding, soaking, and straining. The strainer is a woven fiber tube that is filled with the pulpy mixture, then stretched and twisted to extract the starchy liquid. Naked, sweating women prepared the large, round baking stone upon which the viscous manioc would be extended. Gradually, they smoothed and pinched the mass into shape with s­ aliva-­moistened fingers until it became a large, flat, dusty loaf of unleavened bread. Still other women were twisting and rolling moriche fibers in their laps to fashion a hammock

92 · The Vortex

suitable for my weight and stature. They glanced at me occasionally, gauging me with their eyes. The chief, now delighted with me, gestured his intent to organize a ceremonial dance appropriate to a man of my awesome authority. It was but a taste of my upcoming adventures!

The Indians whom we’d sent to buy provisions got totally swindled by the storekeepers of Orocué. In return for the precious white feathers, they returned with trinkets worth a thousand times less in market value. Pipa had drilled them on the range of prices that they ought to accept, but still they were easily deceived by anyone so skilled in the arts of deception as these riverfront traders. A few packets of porous salt, several blue and red bandanas, and some knives constituted the entire product of the first sale of feathers from the garcero. Our poor Indians were happy, at least, that this time the storekeepers didn’t force them to work sweeping and carrying water or pulling weeds in front of the store, or even stacking putrid, half-­cured cattle hides, as they had been forced to do on previous visits to Orocué. We consoled ourselves with the advantages of traveling light. And finally, on a night of a full moon, our large canoe was loaded and ready, tugging softly at its mooring, as if impatient to leave for Caviona. Around fifty people of both sexes and all ages converged to participate in the ceremony that night. Silent and painted, they installed themselves on the riverbank with gourds of foamy chicha. Since the afternoon they had been gathering the fat and succulent grubs that can often be found curled in the decomposing wood of old tree trunks. They clipped off the grub’s head with their teeth, the way smokers sometimes bite off the tip of their cigars, then sucked out the animal’s buttery innards, finally rubbing the empty carcass on their hair to give it luster. The young women with pert breasts had applied luster until their hair shone like black patent leather under their crests of red, blue, and gold macaw feathers. The chief, his face thickly painted orange, had inserted hollow tubes in his nostrils to inhale an intoxicating powder called yopo. It induced a sort of delirium tremens in which the old goat cavorted impertinently but impotently among the young women. Several times, despite his evident difficulty forming words, he came to express his approval of me and, according to Pipa, promised to make me a bow with arrows and a war club.

Part Two · 93

Bubbly, abundant chicha animated the orgiastic, bacchanalian soundscape, topped by the shrill cries of women and little children. To the sound of flutes and drums, the men began to move in a slow circle on the sand, shaking their left feet on every third step, one of the most common indigenous dances. But there was no gaiety in their dance. To my eyes, they followed one another like convicts in a prison yard, eyes on the heels of those ahead, totally governed by the music. Yet, gradually, the sounds of flute and drum mixed with the hot breath of dancers sad as the moon, dancers as mute and solemn as the river that tolerated them on its shores. Then, the women, who had remained quietly inside the circle, joined the men, each woman embracing her partner tightly and loping clumsily beside him for a moment, until the dance ended with a call rising with spontaneous urgency from every throat, a sort of instinctive lamentation that rang through the darkened forest like a tolling bell: aaay, oooway! Lying propped on my elbows in sand burnished gold and red by firelight, I observed the singular celebration, satisfied to see my inebriated companions enjoy themselves. The frolic would help them put aside their troubles and smile for a little while. In the next moment, however, I noticed that my companions now moved so like the other dancers, their lamentation capturing the Indians’ voice so perfectly, that it was all a little too unanimous. We were coming to feel the Indians’ most recondite pain almost as our own. Our common lament echoed the lonesome desperation of the world’s defeated races. Aaay, oooway, indeed!

When I crept away to my hammock, feeling the most absolute desolation, several of the Indian girls followed me. They huddled around my hammock in the dark, giggling about something in low voices, until one of them dared to lift up the mosquito netting. Over her shoulder, her friends peered at me and tittered. I closed my eyes and rejected their lascivious provocations, resolved to enjoy instead the soothing and invigorating benefits of chastity. At dawn the partiers wobbled up from the riverfront and collapsed on the floor of our palm-­thatched enclosure. None of my companions were among them, and I smiled upon noting the absence of several of the unmarried women, as well. When I walked down to the river to check on the canoe, I found Pipa there, stretched out faceup in the sun, stark naked and apparently unconscious. I dragged him into the shade, disgusted by his 94 · The Vortex

preference for native dress, or rather undress, which displayed his profusion of tribal skin scarification and tattoos, despite my explicit instructions to the contrary. And I left him to sleep it off. He was still lying there, perfectly still, at nightfall, and the next morning, too. Alarmed, I grabbed my gun, seized the chief by his shaggy mane, and pushed him to the ground, while Franco threatened to sic the dogs on him. The geezer embraced my knees, trembling, and tried to excuse himself: “Nothing. Nothing. Taking ayahuasca. Ayahuasca!” I was already familiar with this second hallucinogenic drug, which makes indigenous shamans fly in their dreams. They fly to distant locations, see what is happening far away, locate approaching intruders who mean them ill, and determine the hunting grounds where game animals most abound. Pipa had offered to drink ayahuasca, said Franco, to find the men who stole our women, and his visionary spirit had apparently flown off in search of them. We dragged the unconscious voyager to where we could prop him semierect. His beardless face had taken a slightly purple hue. Drooling onto his stomach, he failed to open his eyes to look at the crowd of faces around him. I held his forehead between my hands. “Pipa! Pipa! What do you see? What do you see?” Chewing his tongue like a piece of sticky candy, he blubbered inarticulately. The Indians seemed to be saying that nothing could be expected from him until he regained consciousness. But I insisted: “What do you see?” “R . . . ri . . . ver. A river. M . . . men. Two m . . . men.” “What else? What else?” “A ca . . . noe.” “Do we know these men? “Uuungh. Uuuuuuungh.” “You all right, Pipa? What do you need?” “Sleeeep . . . I need . . . sleep. The voyager’s visions were bizarre, indeed. He saw processions of alligators and turtles, flowers that shouted, swamps full of people. He reported that the trees of the forest were paralyzed giants that talked and gestured to each other in the dark. The trees wanted to fly away with the clouds, but the earth held them firmly by the ankles, so that they could never go anywhere. These formidable beings were condemned to be perpetually motionless victims, casually felled and burned by thoughtless human beings, condemned to sprout ever anew, bloom and grow anew, ignored or Part Two · 95

misunderstood, only to be cut down again and again. But endurance had its limits. Pipa had heard the trees’ appeal to occupy pastures and fallow fields and vacant lots until a single, great canopy of interwoven tree limbs could cover the surface of the entire earth. One day, all would be, again, as it was in the beginning—in the age of Genesis, when God floated like a mist over the endless sea of green. A dire prophecy, indeed.

By the time we reached the Vichada River, the mosquitoes had been our undoing. A cloud of them, whining faintly, tremulous like a half-­vibrating string, pursued us day and night. Debilitated, we could not keep our precious blood from them because they sucked it even through our hats and clothing, transmitting to us the virus of malarial nightmares and fevers. Wading waist deep in water, we slogged ahead with our soggy belongings on our backs, emaciated and starving, sleeping fitfully, deprived of fire, huddling among inhospitable bushes on islands of high ground. Equatorial climates are equally merciless regarding rain and drought. I recall one day at La Maporita, back when Alicia still loved me, I went out one morning to catch a fawn for her to play with. Cattle moved around seeking water on the sun-­toasted llano. In the dry riverbed, two older calves were scraping mud with their hooves beside the remains of a colt that had collapsed and died there. A flock of vultures feasted intensively on the bodies of various large equatorial rodents and opportunistically on trembling, ­thirst-­crazed snakes, lizards, and frogs. A bull bellowed and nudged his cows along the dazzling, ­straw-­covered bank of the dry river, searching for a viable water hole. One of the cows refused to leave her newborn calf and lay down beside it. Her protruding rib cage heaved with her dying breaths. I lifted the calf in my arms. Many copious rains later, the situation had reversed. The ground had disappeared under a vast sheet of water, and any substantial tree trunk bore a rabbit, further rodents, or perhaps a fox, as passengers on the flood. The cattle were having trouble grazing, even when the water wasn’t high enough for the piranhas to devour their udders. We waded through those waters barefoot, like legendary Spanish explorers and conquerors of the sixteenth century. And when, on the eighth day, they pointed to the wooded bank of the Vichada River ahead, I trembled 96 · The Vortex

with excitement and advanced, Winchester at the ready, half expecting to catch Alicia and Barrera unawares, in flagrante delicto, and thunder down upon them like an avenging spirit. Panting, I crept to the riverbank like a jaguar ready to pounce. But I found nobody, only the swirling current, silence, and immensity.

Why go on? Better simply to lie down anywhere and let this malarial fever finish us off ! Thoughts of suicide came to my mind that night as never before. I lay for hours in my hammock with the muzzle of my gun under my jaw. What would be left of my face? Would I become headless like Millán? The idea gave me pause. I’m not sure how, but a sort of tragic demon took me over. Just a few weeks ago, I wasn’t like this. Now, evil feelings competed with kind ones, and my brain conceived the morbid plan of murdering my companions to save them from the torture of a lingering death by starvation. Then I would take my own life. My hand counted the bullets in my pocket. Which of my friends should I kill first? Fidel Franco lay closest to me. I extended my arm through the rainy dark and touched his feverish head. “What do you want? Did you just switch the safety off your gun?” he asked. “This fever is making me hear things.” Feeling my pulse, he added: “Your fever is high, about to break. Wrap up in my poncho.” “This night is never going to end. It’s ­pitch-­black out here.” “Morning star will be out soon. You know,” he continued, “Antonio might die, I reckon. Haven’t you heard him talking to Sebastiana? He’s delirious and thinks he’s at a roundup. He says his liver’s as hard as a rock.” “It’s your fault. You wanted him to come.” “The mulato just doesn’t like Pipa, is all.” “I’m going to reconcile them for good.” “He’s just worried about Pipa putting a hex on him.” “Ignorance! Superstition!” I exclaimed, remembering old Sebastiana’s potions. “He is sort of wasting away, though. There’s a certain birdsong that makes him sad these days. And yesterday, he got out his guitar to restring it, but he just started crying.” “Don’t you have some manioc in your rucksack? Get up and come here.” Part Two · 97

“What for? The food’s all gone.” “You think the berries of this tree are poisonous?” “Probably. Our Indians have gone fishing, though. Maybe they’ll catch something. Let’s wait until tomorrow.” And with tears in my eyes, I lowered the gun in the pitch darkness and whispered: “All right, tomorrow.”

The dogs pawed at my mosquito net to wake me up. Evidently, the water was still rising, so we moved to a nearby promontory. The stars twinkled on the river, and the dogs barked at us from a high embankment. “Pipa, call the dogs. They’re barking like they’ve seen the devil.” I whistled lugubriously at the animals. Franco remarked that Pipa had gone with the Indians to fish. That’s when we noticed a glimmer, very low on the water, that disappeared and reappeared intermittently until dawn, when we lost track of it. Forest and Savanna arrived in excitement, panting, with Pipa close behind. “Canoe coming upriver. Somebody else coming behind.” Pipa had further news. The canoe was a small dugout with a canopy of woven palm fronds. The person inside had seen our Indians, put out the light, and changed course. We should try to ambush him. Close to midday the canoe finally reached our location. Someone was poling it upstream against the slow-­moving current along the bank, avoiding rapids and whirlpools and trying to stay out of sight under the densely overhanging branches of guamo trees. As the canoe approached our ambush, a man clambered out of it and pulled it upriver with a long chain. Machete in hand, Franco confronted him, and we leveled our guns in support. Instantly, another man, still in the canoe, stood upright and shouted: “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! It’s me! Helí Mesa!” The man splashed ashore and embraced Franco. Later, as he gave us each a second helping of manioc with the texture of bran, Mesa inquired, smiling: “So, why do you ask? What do you care about who’s going for rubber? Barrera’s got a bunch of people. I heard he’s taking them to Brazil, where they’ll have to work for him tapping rubber. He convinced me to sign up, too, for a while, but then I changed my mind and killed one of his bosses. These two Maipures Indians helped me escape.” 98 · The Vortex

I looked dumbly at my friends, feeling a vertigo more nauseating than fever. Confronting the truth made us thoughtful. Mesa observed us uneasily until Franco broke the silence. “Tell me. Is Griselda with them?” “Yes sir, Lieutenant.” “And a woman named Alicia?” I asked in a squeaky voice. “Yeah, her too.”

We crouched around the fire that glowed stubbornly in the sand, cloaking ourselves in smoke to avoid the mosquitoes. It must have been around midnight when Helí Mesa resumed his brutal narrative. I listened with eyes closed and my head sunk between my knees. “What a scene that day on the riverbank when the expedition set out! What a party! Barrera distributed smiles, congratulations, and embraces to everyone, left and right. He was very pleased with the group that he had managed to assemble. The music did not stop for an instant, and for lack of fireworks, we shot our pistols in the air. There was singing, lots and lots of rum, and food in abundance. As he opened more bottles, Barrera gave a speech ­sticky-­sweet with pretty lies and asked us all kindly, in view of all the drink and our unquestionable high spirits, to deposit our weapons in one of the larger boats, just for safety’s sake. We all obeyed without protest, and that was the last we saw of our guns. “I knew there was something fishy about Barrera and his projects. I almost turned around and went back to my hut and the little woman I left there. But everyone, even Griselda, made fun of my worries, and I ended up shouting with the rest as we trooped aboard his boats: ‘Long live Barrera! Hurrah for Progress! Hurrah for the expedition!’ “Like I said, though, I changed my mind when we got to Vichada. A bunch of Barrera’s thugs were waiting for us there, directed by a pair they called the Dove and the Deer, who pretended to be Venezuelan border guards. They said we’d have to go with them to be searched and questioned. Barrera assured us that there was no problem, and he ordered us to cooperate. The thugs came aboard our boats and trained their weapons on us. The five of us who objected were knocked senseless. “Barrera said that he was going on ahead, to take care of official matters. He would denounce the present mistreatment to Colonel Funes and demand an indemnity from the officials at San Fernando de Atabapo. Deaf Part Two · 99

to our pleas and protests, he took the best boat—with all the guns, all the provisions, all the white women, everything—and was gone! “Taking advantage of our drunkenness, the so-­called Dove paired us off and chained us together, two by two. From that day on, we were slaves, not allowed to go ashore. They threw manioc on the ground and in pairs we knelt down to eat it like dogs, side by side, with our faces in the pans and our hands tied behind our backs. “There were some little ones in the boat with the women. They were in the sun all day without shade once we got to the Orinoco, and the women kept the children’s heads wet to keep them from burning up. One babe in arms cried and cried. It was hungry and covered with infected mosquito bites. The Deer decided it had smallpox, and he grabbed it by the legs and swung it over his head into the river, where an alligator took it between its jaws in about two seconds. Its mother jumped in after it, attracting more gators. Barrera’s thugs were laughing and clapping, so I took advantage of the hubbub to slip my bonds. I grabbed the nearest thug’s rifle and put ten inches of bayonet between the Deer’s kidneys. The bayonet went several inches into the plank behind him, too, and he just stood there bawling. “Then, with everyone watching, I jumped into the river. The alligators were still busy with the woman, and none of the thugs’ shots hit me, so here I am. I guess God approved.”

Helí Mesa’s strong, dark hand had a comforting look. I shook it fervently to celebrate the noble impulse that drove honest steel into the odious flesh of the expired thug. Helí seemed indomitable. His hands, covered with the same reddish fuzz as on his cheeks, knew how to tame the jungle or paddle a canoe through this green, labyrinthine water world. “Catire,” they called him, a name llaneros give to ­light-­haired, ­green-­eyed people with a touch of African descent. “Don’t congratulate me,” he said. “I should have killed them all.” “Then why am I here?” I replied. “You’re right. Nobody took my woman. It was just common decency. But you can still give me orders, Lieutenant, like back in Arauca. I’ll help you save those women you’re looking for. There’s lots of people tapping rubber way south, beyond the Guainía River, at a place called Jaguanari, in Brazil. That’s where they’ve got your friends, I’ll bet. To get there from the Orinoco, they had to pass through the Casiquiare region, where they 100 · The Vortex

buy and sell workers by the dozen. They could have been sold to anyone. Trafficking workers. That’s the business that the Dove and the Deer handle for Barrera—handled, I mean.” He smiled. “And you think that Alicia and Griselda have been sold as slaves?” “They’re worth money, I can guarantee you that! Any fat-­cat Amazonian rubber baron would probably pay plenty for a young, good-­looking white woman. Maybe a thousand pounds of rubber! That’s what the thugs were saying.” I went away across the sand to hang my hammock alone, where I could enjoy feeling sorry for myself. How entertaining to imagine Alicia and Griselda enslaved! They deserved every lash! I envisioned them walking down a jungle path, ragged and thin, carrying buckets of liquid latex on their heads. Or perhaps they were toting fuel and utensils with which to heat and solidify the liquid latex into great rubber balls for shipping. However that was, the sharp tongue of the overseer poked at the women constantly with indecent, poisonous barbs, giving them not a moment’s rest, which I approved. At night, they were left to sleep, no doubt, with the rest of the workers, in the worst kind of promiscuity, fending off hands on all sides, often not knowing who had managed to possess them, as the guards called out at intervals: “Next . . .” One thought led to another, and suddenly I found that my heart had swollen in my chest until I couldn’t breathe, leaving me totally helpless. What if Alicia were still carrying my child? What more terrible moment could any man face? I stood spasmodically, then collapsed with a howl, clawing my head bloody. Then I had another idea. Barrera would have kept Alicia for himself ! He wanted her for his business and for his bed. She’d be the man’s concubine, I thought. Those two were fully capable of that, both of them. What voluptuous refinements, what salacious depravities had he taught her? Or if he had sold her after all, who cared? Perfect! A thousand pounds of rubber was too much, though. Much too much. So she wasn’t toting latex on a jungle path. Instead, she had become the new Cleopatra, a baronial consort for the fat cat who bought her from Barrera. She was dressed—so I perceived—in costly silks and fine lace, taking pleasure in humiliating the servants and sneering at the poverty she’d suffered in the past, at my side. Arturo Cova served only for bedding her, opined the harlot, whom I imagined reclining in her wicker rocking chair, surrounded by the fragrant, shady coolness of her rich lover’s veranda, her Part Two · 101

hair playing on the shoulders of her breezy blouse. Relaxing on her riverfront veranda, indolent and rich, listening to her new Victrola, perpetually fanned by servants with palm fronds, she watched lines of wretched laborers loading boats with rubber and more rubber. I envisioned Alicia’s eyelids growing gradually heavier in the afternoon heat. She was satisfied with life, pleased to be beautiful, pleased to be desired, satisfied to be what she had become. But I had become Death, the destroyer, and I was on my way!

In the indigenous village of Ucun, the local chief gave us manioc to eat and recited, for Pipa’s benefit, the route to our destination, river by river. We would have to cross the steppe from the Vichada to the Vúa, descend the Vúa to the Guaviare, ascend the Inírida to the Papunagua, cross over the ­jungle-­clad isthmus between the Papunagua and the roaring Isana, and ask its powerful currents to fling us all the way to the deep, b­ lack-­waved Guainía (that Brazilians call the Río Negro). The route would take us months, but it was still shorter than the normal rubber tappers’ route, by way of the Orinoco and the Casiquiare. He recommended that we fortify our canoe by covering its light hull with a special resin. We launched ourselves into the vast, flooded wilderness, kneeling in the most awkward way to paddle for hours upon hours, the canoe deeply loaded with the dogs and all our supplies, taking turns bailing out water from the stubborn, impertinent rains. Antonio Correa still trembled with fever, curled up in the bottom of the canoe, underneath the poncho that he’d used, in better days, to hoodwink raging bulls. When he asked me to put my head on his chest and listen to the worm devouring his heart, I embraced him with foreboding. “Chin up, man! Where’s that tough llanero, the star of every roundup?” “You said it, white boy. I’m not the man I used to be. That man stayed in the llanos.” And he said again that Pipa had put a hex on him because he wouldn’t lend the guy his guitar. I summoned that rascally Pipa and gave him a good shake. “Leave the poor mulato alone, or I’m going to tie you naked on an anthill.” “I’m not that evil, for God’s sake! I put a hex on the people we’re chasing. I don’t know why Correa has decided it was for him. Look, pay attention,” he said loudly in the sick man’s direction, and, reaching into his knapsack, 102 · The Vortex

he brandished a handful of straw encircled near the middle by a twist of wire, like a tiny, useless broom. He unwrapped the wire as he continued his exposition. Each night he had twisted the wire more tightly, see? He had done it while thinking of Barrera, so that Barrera would feel his body strangled at the waist and gradually divided in two. “No doubt he’s half dead by now! But what can I do if you don’t believe me? All right, so Barrera is saved, then, thanks to this ignorant mulato’s hysteria!” And he tossed the magic apparatus away. Sometimes we had to pull out and carry the canoe around a waterfall or, to avoid stretches of rapids, longer distances along the bank. In the latter case, we lifted the canoe onto our shoulders like pallbearers. It was as if we had come to collect the corpse of someone, still unknown, who preceded us. “This thing is like a coffin,” clarified Fidel. And the feverish Antonio waxed oracular: “And the deceased might be . . . us.” The waters were full of fish, but a lack of salt sapped our energy and appetite. Our aerial tormenters now included vampire bats as well as mosquitoes. The bats clung to the mosquito netting at night, keening ultrasonically. We had to cover the dogs at night, too. Jaguars chirped and whistled in the darkness beyond the light of our campfire, and occasionally we used our firearms to keep the interminable, aggressive night at bay. Then, one afternoon, walking along the bank of the Guaviare just at dusk, I chanced upon a human footprint. It was a single, sharp impression in the clay, a tiny footprint of a single foot only, without another footprint anywhere in sight. Pipa, who was bow fishing nearby, came running at my call, and soon the others had gathered to help track the mysterious intruder. It was Helí Mesa who interrupted the discussion by announcing: “This is the track of Mapiripana, whom they call the Little Indian Maiden.” Later that evening, as he turned the spit from which a turtle dripped fat into the fire, Mesa demolished Pipa’s most conclusive arguments about the identity of the intruder. “Forget the Poira. The Poira has crooked feet that leave a different sort of track. And the Poira carries a brazier on its head, a brazier that never goes out and even smokes underwater, so that it always leaves a telltale trail of ash everywhere it goes.” He paused for effect. Part Two · 103

“Now, use your ring finger to draw the shape of a butterfly in the sand to protect you against all spirits of the jungle, because I’m going to tell you about Mapiripana, the Little Indian Maiden.” With the exception of Mesa’s two indigenous companions, we all obeyed.

“Mapiripana is the high priestess of hush, the guardian of ponds and springs. She makes her habitation in the very kidneys of the rainforest, busily squeezing drops from its little puffs of mist, collecting every dew drop that condenses on its mossy banks, directing each trickling rivulet to engross its crystalline streams and, ultimately, its awesome rivers. Thanks to Mapiripana, the Orinoco and the Amazon have ten thousand tributaries. “The Indians fear her, and she tolerates their activities only when they don’t disturb the peace of the forest. Natives who offend her find no game to hunt. The disappointed hunters know that she has frightened away the game when they notice the mark of her single foot in the moist clay. Skilled trackers, they recognize her distinctive footprint not only because no others appear nearby but also because the impression shows that she always walks backward. She always carries an epiphyte in her hands, too. And she was the first person ever to fan herself with a palm frond. You can hear her crying in the undergrowth at night, except during the full moon, when she navigates the rivers in a giant tortoise shell pulled by pink river dolphins whose fins sway in time with her singing. “Long ago, an evil missionary came to these latitudes, a man wearing an ecclesiastical habit, who abused palm wine and Indian girls. Believing himself sent by heaven to destroy superstition, he ambushed Mapiripana one night on the riverbank. His plan was to tie her up with his rope belt and burn her alive, like a witch. Somewhere not far away, possibly on this sandy beach where you are sitting now, he saw Mapiripana gathering turtle eggs. She appeared, by the light of the full moon, like a young widow dressed in a gown of spider’s web. The lustful missionary went after her, but she easily eluded him in the darkness. He called and called to her, but an echo alone responded, luring him deeper into the jungle, and finally into a cave, where Mapiripana imprisoned him for many years. “To punish him for the sin of concupiscence, she sucked on his lips until he begged her to stop. The missionary was losing all his blood, and he closed his eyes in order not to see her face, which had become as hairy as an orangutan’s. Within a few months she had become pregnant, and she gave birth 104 · The Vortex

to an owl and a vampire bat. Aghast at having conceived such beings, the missionary escaped from the cave, pursued by his own abominable children. Whenever he stopped to rest, exhausted, the vampire bat sucked his blood and the owl illuminated the scene with the green glow of its horrible eyes. “At dawn, the missionary fled onward, appeasing his flaccid stomach with a few bites of fruit and palmito. From what is today called the Laguna Mapiripana, he crossed by land to the Guaviare River and worked his way upriver using a canoe that he found conveniently tied up for the taking. But Mapiripana rolled gargantuan boulders into the river, producing rapids and defeating the missionary’s repeated attempts to ascend them. The intruder descended instead into the Orinoco basin, but he found his escape thwarted by Mapiripana at every turn. The floods of the Maipures River were her handiwork, as were the falls of the Isana, the Inírida, and the Vaupés. Finally, giving up all hope of salvation, the missionary returned to the cave of his imprisonment, guided by the owl’s green lanterns. And there was the little maiden smiling at him from her swing of flowering vines. He bowed down before her, asking that she defend him from their progeny, and he fainted at her cruel reply: Who can save a man from his own remorse? “The man devoted himself to prayer and penitence and died shortly thereafter, haggard and old beyond his years. In his last moments, Mapiripana found him stretched on his back in his miserable bower of leaves and moss, deliriously waving his hands in the air, as if trying to recapture his own fleeing spirit. And when he died, an immense blue butterfly fluttered in the cave, luminous as an archangel. That luminous blue butterfly is always the final vision, in this part of the jungle, anyway, of those who die of malarial fever.”

My mind is not working right, apparently. Behold the most terrifying discovery that anyone can make! And to think that for a week I had congratulated myself on the subtlety of my senses, the lucidity of my comprehension, the sophistication of my reasoning. Indeed, I had never felt such a mastery of life and destiny, such a facility at problem solving. I believed myself predestined to comprehend matters exceptional and extraordinary. My mind became so active that I no longer slept. I devoted entire nights to analyzing physics, philosophy, philology. My mental problem emerged clearly one day on the banks of the turbulent Inírida, when I heard the sands supplicating: Part Two · 105

“Oh, don’t step so hard, please! Your step packs us together unbearably. We’d rather be moving. Take pity on us and fling us into the wind!” Frenetically, I whirled my arms, throwing sand everywhere, and had Franco not been holding my shirt when I lunged toward the river, I would have hurled myself into the current. The waters, too, had begun to wail in my ears: “Have you no compassion for us, ever moving without a moment’s rest? Oh please, hold onto us before we slip away! We are so frightened of the sea!” But as soon as I touched the water, the dementia disappeared, leaving in its wake a torturous uncertainty and dread of my own mind. To distract myself I paddled mechanically for hours until utterly drained, attempting, by means of surreptitious glances, to discern the state of my mental health by reading my companions’ faces. I saw them exchange disconsolate looks, even as they directed bland encouragements my way: “Don’t tire yourself out, Arturo. You know, one’s got to be careful with these malarial fevers and all.” Nonetheless, I knew it was something more serious. Therefore, I made a concentrated effort to conceal my vulnerability by persuading everyone of my mental acuity. I enriched my conversation with entertaining anecdotes and often recited poetry, whether silently or for the edification of the paddlers, delighted to confirm the perfection of my memory on all points. Sometimes, however, I sank into lethargic lassitudes that ended with an urgent question: “For God’s sake, Franco, tell me if I sound mad.” Little by little, my nerves were restored. One morning I awoke joyfully and began to whistle a love song. Later I lay down on the spreading roots of a mahogany tree and gazed dreamily up through the branches, scoffing at the idea of illness, blaming all my feverish apprehensions on simple nervousness. Then, without warning, I felt that I was paralyzed and helpless. This was no bad dream! It was a fatal, irremediable reality. I was dying of catalepsy and wanted to scream. I tried to move, but my body had gone rigid. Only my hair budged at all, guttering in the breeze like the sail of a sinking ship. Icy cold pushed its way under my toenails, into my cramping feet, up my brittle legs—like water infiltrating a sugar cube. My nerve endings crystallized, my heart pounded against ribs of glass, and my eyeballs acquired a frosty glaze. Dazed and confused, I yet understood that my cries had no exterior sound. They echoed only within my head, like panicky meditations. Meanwhile, my will struggled to animate my immobile body, and a shadowy 106 · The Vortex

form at my side raised a scythe and brandished it over my head in the wind. But Death hesitated, as I awaited its grim reaping, and finally, raising the scythe even higher, Death brought the handle heavily down on my skull. The skull fragments shattered into the parietal void, jangling like coins in a piggy bank. The great mahogany tree swayed its massive branches, and in the rustle of the leaves, I heard its vengeful judgment: “Chop, slice, sever! Let him learn the feeling of a blade that cuts through helpless, living tissue. How much firewood has he split with his pitiless ax?” “Kill me, if you like,” I thought defiantly, just in case the jungle could hear my interior voice. “But I’m still alive!” “And my noxious fumes?” inquired a fetid puddle in the mud. “Are they without effect?” Then nonchalant footsteps approached, shuffling in the leaf litter on the forest floor. It was Franco, smiling, bending over, reaching toward my eye with his finger. “I’m alive! I’m alive! Listen to my chest and you can hear my heart beat!” Deaf to the sound of my interior voice, he called the rest of my comrades to tell them calmly: “Dig his grave. He’s dead. It’s the best thing that could have happened to him.” I heard the dreadful sound of picks and shovels digging, and as the world faded, I made a last, superhuman effort to speak. “Bitter is my fate! In neither life nor death will the world ever know that I had a heart!” Then my eyes were able to move, and I resuscitated. Franco was shaking me. “Wake up. It’s all right. But don’t sleep on your back because it gives you nightmares.” “But I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t asleep!”

The two Maipures Indians who accompanied Helí Mesa were an enigma to me, phlegmatic and nondescript. It would be easier to guess the age of a sea turtle. Nothing—not hunger, nor fatigue, nor any kind of accidental setback—perturbed them. The pair reminded me of the ducks that one sees always and only with their mates, flying together and resting together, ever surrounded by a larger solitude but always eschewing the company of other Part Two · 107

birds. If they spoke at all, we hardly heard them. When we camped, after they lit our fire and assembled hooks, lines, spears, and other equipment for the evening’s fishing, they kept apart from the rest of us, sitting side by side to share their meager rations. I never saw them interact with the Guahibo Indians who’d joined us with Pipa, nor did they pay any attention to Pipa’s Guahibo stories and antics. They seemed completely apart and self-­sufficient, asking for nothing, offering nothing. The ­green-­eyed catire Helí Mesa was their intermediary with the group. To him they expressed their desire to go back to the Maipures River. They wanted their canoe, their only possession. Mesa prevaricated: “You should come with us at least as far as the Isana River.” “We cannot go.” “Otherwise, we won’t let you take your canoe.” “We cannot go.” When we got to the Inírida River, the older Maipures confronted me with a mixture of entreaties and ultimatums. The gist was clear enough. Let us go home. This river very bad. Ahead: rubber trees, crazy people, men with guns killing Indians. They echoed frightening references that Pipa had made to the zone ahead. I had Franco question the pair that afternoon. The Maipures resisted interrogation, but we learned that astride our route—and blocking it—on the isthmus between the Papunagua and Isana Rivers, was a colony of renegades, indigenous and otherwise. Many were former rubber tappers who had escaped from ­slave-­like working conditions along countless rivers in northern Amazonia: the Vaupés and the Putumayo, the Ajajú and the Apoporis, the Macava and the Papurí. They were refugees from the Ti-­ Paraná, meaning river of foam, and the Tui-­Paraná, meaning river of blood. They had created a network of trails through the jungle to facilitate their escape from the patrols sent periodically to wipe them out. For some time, a Corsican nicknamed Cayenne (because he had escaped from the famous Devil’s Island penitentiary of that French colony) had been buying rubber from this tribe of renegades. His warehouses were on the Isana. They should be avoided at all cost, explained the Maipures. The renegades would treat us as enemies, and Cayenne would make us tap rubber for the rest of our lives. The news saddened me, whether true or not. Last light faded over the river. No stars were visible. Darkness thickened among the trees. Worries kept me awake until around midnight, when I heard dogs barking and, then, quarreling voices. A group of men were arguing at the water’s edge, beside the canoe. 108 · The Vortex

“Kill them! Kill them!” shouted Helí Mesa. Fidel Franco called to me urgently, and I ran to his side, revolver in hand. “These bandits were about to steal the canoe! They don’t mind leaving us here to starve. And they say that Pipa advised them to do it!” “Who’s accusing me now? Does that sound like my advice?” The Maipures men challenged Pipa only timidly, as if mystified by the situation. “You asked us to put your bed and two carbines in the canoe.” “Ah, but I was suggesting that you take the canoe merely to observe your response! Traitors!” Cutting off the argument, I decided that Pipa should be flogged by his accomplices. The rascal writhed and twisted more than did the whip they applied to his back, wailing and imploring mercy, and he went so far as to invoke the name of Alicia, for which I threatened to throw him to the piranhas. At that point, he pretended to faint, to the consternation of all the Maipures and Guahibos. I told them not to concern themselves about Pipa, and that, from now on, anyone leaving his hammock without permission during the night would be shot with no questions asked. We spent the next weeks fruitlessly ascending one thundering torrent after another. And just when we thought we’d tamed the last one, we heard the echo of the next, pounding in the distance, its foam fluttering defiantly like warning pennants on the surrounding crags. Here the white water cascaded through a narrow gorge with astounding speed and force. A mist arose on turbulent gusts that made the bamboo shudder and kept the iris swaying, swaying. Below, at the bottom of the rapids, spun a powerful whirlpool. On either side of the river, enormous blocks of tumbled basalt flanked the flood. The sheer rock flanks of the gorge made it impossible to pull our canoe out of the water. On the right side, a string of boulders created spray and confusion, so somehow we would have to propel the canoe up smoother water on the left side of the rapids. Fortunately, we had become quite practiced at such maneuvers. We ran a rope around a crag at the top of the rapids and hoisted the canoe up the rushing torrent until converging waves made it pitch and yaw uncontrollably. It needed more weight and someone aboard to steer. Helí Mesa, who was directing the operation, cocked his revolver as he told the two Maipures to climb down the rocks and jump into the canoe to handle it. The feisty pair did not hesitate to do so, we resumed hoisting, and soon the two were coaxing the light vessel up the left margin of the surging flood. Then, without warning, the rope gave way, the canoe turned sidePart Two · 109

ways, and before anyone could so much as shout, the river hurled it into the whirling vortex below, where craft and crew vanished in the blink of an eye. Only the straw hats of the two vanished Maipures resisted the downward suction of the whirlpool. They floated in anxious circles on the water’s surface, underneath the swaying iris with petals the color of Mapiripana’s butterfly.

Oh, sublime death! What a magnificent spectacle! Not the weary, routine sort at all. Death should be thanked for devouring its inevitable victims, on this occasion, without shedding blood or displaying repulsively bruised and broken bodies. How lovely to die like these Indians, whose existence was snuffed out instantaneously, like a glowing coal dropped in water! As we ran along the top of the cliffs to throw down a lifeline, I reflected that our belated but laudable impulse essentially trivialized the awesome catastrophe, rendering pedestrian what ought to be sublime. My eyes riveted on the vortex below, I fretted that those bruised and broken bodies might yet appear to join the circle dance of their straw hats and spoil the scene entirely. Happily, the bubbling foam had erased all other trace of the tragedy. Impatient at the useless behavior of my companions, who leapt insistently from boulder to boulder, searching the river for survivors, I shouted: “Don’t be a fool, Franco. They corked off instantaneously. And anyway, what could you offer them if they came back to life? Let’s be content to envy the way they went out!” Franco, who had found and salvaged various splintered fragments of our canoe, raised one of them as if to strike me. “Don’t you care anything about your friends? Is this what we get? I never took you for such a heartless bastard.” I was perplexed by his explosive anger. I experienced a vague concern for my honor and glanced around for my Winchester. Franco’s enraged insults over the roar of the river, not to mention his waving his fists in my face, had wounded my pride and made a strong impression on me. I had never seen fury so tumultuous and eloquent. Franco spoke of lives sacrificed to my whim. He spoke of my ungratefulness, my stubbornness, my rancor. I had been dishonest with him from the beginning, as his guest at La Maporita, pretending to be rich, when my poverty was obvious, pretending to be married, when Alicia’s actions showed that she wasn’t my wife. And how about my fussing over her moral pulchritude when I was the one who had 110 · The Vortex

disgraced and perverted her! And going berserk because she’d gone with another, when I was the first to steal her away! And plunging into the wilderness to find her, when the cities of Colombia brimmed with pretty, eligible girls bored with their virtuous lives! And dragging my friends along on this fool’s errand, so that I could admire the way that they died! All because I was impulsive, theatrical, and deranged! My friend’s final adjective hit me like a hammer on the head. So I was “deranged,” was I? What a bunch of crap! It was time to hit back, and I was able to strike a telling blow. “You idiot! What have I done that’s ‘deranged’? What I’m doing with Alicia is just what you’re doing with Griselda! You murdered your superior officer over her. Do you think I don’t know? At least I didn’t marry my slut, but you . . .” My sarcastic laughter visibly buffeted him, and he leaned against a tall rock. For a moment I thought he was going to fall down. When Franco spoke again, his tone was calm and confessional. “It wasn’t me, really, who killed my captain. It was Griselda herself. She stabbed him. She murdered him. Mesa, over there, can confirm it. Oh, I fired off a few shots in the dark house, somehow, but Griselda took my gun, lit a candle, and showed me the captain still writhing in his blood on the floor. ‘He put out the light and jumped on me,’ she said. ‘And here you have him.’ However guilty she might be, Griselda’s bravery had redeemed her in my eyes. So I took the knife and turned myself in, saying I’d done the stabbing. The wounded man refused to accuse anyone before he died. The judge of Orocué wanted to prosecute me for behavior unbefitting an officer—shacking up, you know. So Griselda lost no opportunity to tell everyone we were married. A complete lie, yet it worked like a charm. I swear that all this is true.” Fidel Franco’s revelations surprised me, creating uncertainty in my mind. He rambled on, baring his soul, describing daily life with his homicidal partner, their intimate dramas and domestic discord, his repeated, frustrated desires to abandon her, wishing always that she would leave him first so that he wouldn’t need to repudiate her without just cause. Unfortunately, she never gave him that cause. She wasn’t unfaithful and, on the contrary, attended to his daily necessities with dedication, creating a bond of affectionate condolence that held his resentment in check. That’s why he had sweat blood building up La Maporita. He wanted to leave her with something when he went back to Antioquia, as he hoped to do once his desertion from the army faded from memory. Part Two · 111

When he realized that Barrera lusted for her, though, he found himself blazing with jealousy. Without my misguided example, he might have set her free—but no, my reflexive indignation had been too contagious. And now, here he was, following in my footsteps to his ruin. It was too late to recover sanity, too late to turn back. He wouldn’t accept Griselda now, no sir, neither alive nor dead, but he didn’t want to hurt her, either. In truth, he had no idea what to do. I remember no more of his speech, which continued long after I stopped listening. His words remained audible, like the patter of rainfall, but faded from my attention. A curtain opened in my mind, disclosing visions of the past. With new insight, I perceived circumstances that had formerly passed unnoticed and finally understood the logic of details that had always puzzled me. No wonder Griselda was so eager to leave the llanos and go for rubber! No wonder she got so upset that day when I drew my knife to keep Millán from taking don Rafo’s merchandise. She must surely have flashed back to that terrible scene when she lit the candle over her seducer’s bleeding body to say: “Here you have him.” No wonder she inveighed so frequently against the actions of men. I recalled the words with which she kept me at arm’s length one day: “What are you thinking? If you’re not going to take me away from here, don’t touch me! With you, I’ve been laughing it off, but with others . . . I didn’t take no guff !” And she hit my chest with her closed hand, as if it held avenging steel. And to think that this smiling savage had become Alicia’s mentor and confidante. Alicia’s impressionable spirit had developed a new and different character under this dangerous influence. Perhaps expecting me to abandon her at any moment, Alicia had placed her trust in Griselda, adopting her attitudes and imitating her defects despite my warnings. Her new ally had made her feel less vulnerable to my abandonment. On one occasion, while I was briefly absent from La Maporita, Griselda had given Alicia some target practice. When I surprised the two of them holding smoking guns, they had reacted not at all, as if I’d found them embroidering. “What’s this, Alicia? Has it come to this?” She shrugged without replying, which her smiling companion did for her: “Women’s got to know how to do everything, these days. Can’t count on the husbands!” Helí Mesa interrupted my meditation, at that point, with an earnest plea: “Hey, you and Franco . . . you and Franco are friends! Come on! This is a silly argument. My lieutenant’s hands are free of stain. Give him yours!” 112 · The Vortex

I shook Franco’s hand and said to Mesa: “Give me your hand, too, stained in a just cause.” Pipa and the Guahibos ran away in the night.

“I would be remiss, dear friends, less than candid, less than dutiful, were I to omit on this occasion to reiterate my message of last night. You are free, free to follow your star wherever it may lead, disentangling your fate from mine. Go forth! There is still time to turn aside. He who follows me treads the path of Death. “This river flows to the Guaviare, and from the two rivers’ point of confluence the town of San Fernando lies but half a day’s journey downstream. A simple raft will serve to take you there. Colonel Funes will perhaps ignore your passage. A diet of stems, leaves, and palm sap will serve to keep body and soul together. Go, I say to you, and fare thee well! “If you remain obdurate, however, so be it! Let us advance together, but each of us ultimately on his own. Friends and companions always, yet each facing his destiny alone. In that manner only will I accept your company in what lies ahead. “For my part, I ask only that you convey me to the other side of this river. Our dear lost friends, the two Maipures, always said that the delta of the Papunagua lies not far from these rapids. There dwell the Puinaves Indians with whom I propose to continue my journey to the rubber fields of the Guainía, with what objective you well know, though you regard it as folly.” Thus did I harangue my intrepid comrades on the morning after the disaster, when we awoke on the banks of the Inírida, having lost our canoe and almost all our supplies. On that day, undoubtedly, I had a full presentiment of the multitudinous misfortunes that lay ahead. Yet I strode with confidence up the riverbank, glancing casually but urgently at the other side, aware that I would pass this way once, and once only. When my eyes met Fidel’s, we smiled in mutual recognition of the moment. “Just as well that Pipa took off !” exclaimed Antonio Correa. “I never liked him and his ­hocus-­pocus, anyway. And the only way he knew to the Guainía was the toughest one—down the Neuquén. The very idea of these woods, and above all, the name of Colonel Funes, made him shake like a leaf.” “Yes,” I agreed, “he was expecting the renegade Indians who’ve made this remoteness their stronghold to jump out and attack us at any moment.” Part Two · 113

“And he went on and on about seeing smoke from other fires, when it was only vapor from all the cascades.” “But you can’t deny there’s been other people around,” observed Mesa. “We’ve seen half-­burned sticks, half-­eaten fruit, and fish bones floating in the eddies.” “It’s not just Indians, either,” added Franco. “I’ve seen some bottles and tin cans. Those will be rubber tappers who’ve not been here so long.” The remark put me in mind of Barrera. Mesa’s next comment addressed my unspoken thoughts. “The people we’re after have gone to the Guainía. I’ve got all the proof I need of that. And the trash we’ve seen on this river does not suggest such a large group. Not twenty people, by any means. All the footprints have been large, too. Venezuelan tappers, is my guess. We need to see what’s on the other side of the river. I’ll swear there’s a clearing several ridges over. It could be the Papunagua.” And that afternoon, lying facedown on our improvised raft to row through the foaming current with our arms, we crossed to the other side, where the slanting rays of the sun penetrated the more transparent waters, turning them the color of blood.

My roughness with the lookout was excessive, I’ll admit. Had he posed the slightest resistance, I’d have killed him. When his tremulous feet descended from the structure’s roof, where he’d been watching the river, I pushed him off the ladder. When he fell facedown to the ground, unthreatening and at a loss, I grabbed his hair and lifted his head to see his face. He was a rather tall old man who looked at me with timid eyes and raised a forearm to ward off my blows. His lips quivering, his voice quavered. “Please God, don’t kill me.” How the elderly resemble one another! I thought of my aged father, and suddenly sympathetic to my captive, I raised him from the ground, embraced him, and served him water in my hat. “Pardon me,” I said. “I was unaware of your advanced age.” My companions, who had covered my reconnaissance of the structure from outside, searched the attic and found no one else. They came down the ladder carrying the prisoner’s rifle. “Whose Mauser is this?” screamed Franco. “Mine, sir,” replied the prisoner. 114 · The Vortex

“What are you doing here with a Mauser?” “I got sick, and they left me here days ago.” “You’re a spy for the renegades! Admit it, or we’ll shoot you right now!” The old man faced Franco. “Don’t kill me, please!” “Where are they?” I inquired. “The people who left you here?” “They left two days ago for the upper Inírida.” “Whose corpses are hanging up there on the cliffs above the river?” “Corpses?” “Corpses. The vultures led us to them this morning. Strung up naked with wire through their jaws like a fisherman’s catch on a stringer.” “Oh. There’s a war between Cayenne and Colonel Funes. A week ago Cayenne got reports of a good-­sized craft coming up the river. He brought ­twenty-­five men from the Isana to take care of the intruders. I guess they got taken care of.” “That explains the footprints on the riverbank,” said Helí Mesa, “and the smoke that Pipa saw.” “Who was it, coming up the river?” “The colonel’s followers, coming from San Fernando to steal rubber and hunt Indians. They’re all dead now, and the custom is to string them up as a warning to others.” He shrugged. “And where’s Cayenne now?” “Off doing what the others were coming to do, stealing rubber and hunting Indians.” After a pause, the old man added a question: “And where’s your party? How’d you get here without being spotted?” “Oh, we’re all over. Some around here, some already ascending the Papunagua. Cayenne’s killed a couple of us, too, at the second cascade below here.” “Well, tell your people not to eat the manioc that they’ll find stored here and there, as if the owners forgot it or meant to come back. It’s poisoned.” “The stuff here, too?” “Yes. There’s some good manioc, but we’ve got it hidden.” “Bring it, and eat some in front of us.” As the old man moved to obey me, I saw that his lower legs were covered with ulcerated sores. His eyes followed mine, then looked humbly at the ground. “You won’t want me touching your food to serve you. I’m sorry.” Part Two · 115

When Correa served him manioc in a gourd bowl, he ate it without disguising his tears. I made him feel better by speaking to him in a kind way: “Life is hard, Pop. You’ve got to be tough. Got to be somebody, you know? Now let’s have a taste of your provisions here. I can tell that you and I are going to be friends!”

That night lightning flickered in the shadows, and the jungle echoed with mysterious groans and grumbles. Until the wind and rain put out the campfire, I lay listening to my friends converse with the newcomer, but every now and then drowsiness overcame me, so that I lost the thread of the conversation. The old man’s name was Clemente Silva, born and raised, he said, in the southern Andes of Colombia, so different from both the llanos and the jungle, in the district of Pasto. But for sixteen years he’d been in the jungle, working as a rubber tapper, with nothing to show for it but ulcers on his legs. I awoke at one point to hear him explain, in the tone of someone who’s done someone else a favor: “I saw three of your party cross the river, but I didn’t report it. So today, when I decided to get out of here—” “Wait, wait,” I interrupted, sitting up in my hammock. “How many did you say, and when?” “Three men, day before yesterday at about seven o’clock in the morning. They swam across carrying their clothes on their heads. They’re lucky if Cayenne hasn’t caught them already. He’s a real hellcat, that one.” “Okay, I know who they are. Good night. Enough talk for tonight.” I cut off the conversation to avoid my companions’ possible indiscretions. But I couldn’t sleep, thinking about Pipa and his Maipures friends. This sort of life was getting on my nerves, undermining my natural optimism. Still, I was determined to perish, as appeared every day more likely, rather than desist from my objective. Why hadn’t Clemente Silva shot me from the top of the ladder, as I was half hoping he would? Where was Cayenne, with his famous implements of torture? Bring them on! Then let them hang me up to rot in the sun, swinging gently like a pendulum in the wind. “Where is don Clemente Silva?” I inquired of Helí Mesa the next morning. “Down at the water washing his face.” “Why did you let him go alone? What if he runs off ?” “There’s nothing to worry about. Franco’s with him. His legs were bothering him all night.” 116 · The Vortex

“What do you think of the old fellow?” “I like him. He doesn’t realize that we’re all Colombian—all more or less in the same boat. We ought to tell him who we really are and ask for help.” Down at the water, I felt a pang of pity at seeing Franco wash the afflicted man’s wounds. When the latter heard my footsteps, he hurriedly unrolled his pants legs down to his ankles. Shamefaced, he returned my greeting with a mumble. “How did you get those sores on your legs?” He shook his head. “Leeches! Rubber tappers stand and walk in water for hours, and there’s no way to keep the leeches off. The tappers bleed the trees of their rubber sap, and the leeches bleed the tappers. Then the bites get infected, and they never heal. The jungle has its ways of fighting back against intruders!” “A duel to the death, right, old man?” “When it’s not mosquitoes, it’s ants, all kinds of ants. The ones called tambochas are as poisonous as scorpions. The jungle does something to people’s minds, too. It brings out their greed and savagery. The smell of rubber drives men on, beyond the normal limits of endurance. The tappers dream of becoming traders with boats of their own, getting out of the jungle, walking down the street in some capital city with money in every pocket, sleeping with white women whenever they want, staying drunk for months at a time, while, back in the jungle, a thousand rubber tappers are slaving on their behalf. The dream rarely comes true, though. They generally succumb to beriberi or fevers. Most end up out there in the forest, burning with fever, mad as hatters, hugging the tapped trees and licking the latex sap to calm their thirst, until they fall dead and millions of ants swarm over them and pick their bones clean. “Those who are lucky and, above all, cruel enough may become the traders’ overseers, waiting every evening, notebook in hand, for the tappers to bring the white sap that they have collected that day. The overseers are never satisfied with the quality or quantity of latex, and very rarely do they give a tapper full credit for what he’s brought in. The overseer invents a problem that isn’t there, then gives the poor tapper a taste of the lash for good measure. And the man who’s brought ten liters gets credit for only five, that day, in the company accounts. The overseer takes the other five for himself, trading it for booze, a scarf for his woman, or whatever the next itinerant peddler has for sale. The tappers steal, too, of course, if they can. It’s every man for himself out here. The jungle directs us to destroy one another, and we collaborate like fools.” Part Two · 117

“Why do you endure it?” I asked, indignant. “What can I say, sir? After a while, your spirit just goes.” “Why don’t you return to your own country? What can we do to set you free?” “I am most grateful, sir.” “For now, though, it’s time to take care of those sores. Please allow me to dress your wounds.” Astonished, the old man resisted, but I knelt to roll up his trousers and examined his legs. “Fidel! Are you blind? These wounds are infested with maggots!” “Maggots? I didn’t see.” “Yes. We’ve got to get something to kill them with.” The old man turned scarlet: “What a humiliation! Maggots! I dozed off the other day with the sores uncovered, and the flies got to them while I was sleeping.” As we led him back to the camp, he kept repeating: “Maggots in me, while I’m still alive!”

“You can rely on me,” I told him that afternoon, “because I am always a friend to the weak and the unfortunate. I’d take care of you today even if I knew you planned to betray us tomorrow. You ask to wash your hands and face before you die, and it’s true, we could execute you as a follower of Cayenne, but we won’t. We won’t keep you prisoner, either. On the contrary, we put ourselves in your hands. We are your countrymen, and we are all alone.” The old man stood up, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t a dream. His incredulous eyes measured every inch of us, and then, extending his arms in our direction, he exclaimed: “Colombians! You’re Colombians?” “Yes, sir. Colombians, and your sincere friends.” He went from one to the next, pressing each of us paternally to his breast, shaking with emotion. Then, euphoric, he asked random questions about our names, our odyssey, and all that had occurred in Colombian public life during the sixteen years that he’d been isolated in the jungle. But I interrupted him: “First of all, swear to us right now that you will be our loyal friend.” “I swear it, in the name of God and God’s justice.” 118 · The Vortex

“All right. But what do you intend to do with us? Is Cayenne going to kill us? Do we need to kill him first?” And I added, to help him focus his mind: “Bottom line, do you think Cayenne is coming back here?” “No, I don’t think so. He went to steal rubber and hunt Indians around Caño Grande. That’s far away. He’s got no interest in hurrying back to his operation on the Guaracú as long as that woman’s there. He owes her money.” “Who’s ‘that woman’?” The Turk, they call her! Zoraida Ayram. She operates a commercial house in Brazil, at Manaus. And she’s cruising all the rivers around here buying rubber and selling imported junk at astronomical prices.” “Clemente Silva, you must guide us to the Guaracú immediately. I’ve got to speak with Zoraida Ayram before Cayenne gets back.” “I know all about her. I was her employee. She is the one who brought me to Brazil. First she found me living on the Putumayo, in Colombia, and invited me to go for rubber in Peru. There, though, they cheated me so bad that, the more rubber I tapped, the more I owed the company every month for basic supplies. Finally, I threw myself at Zoraida’s feet, begging her to buy my debt, which had risen to twenty thousand pesos. She paid it in merchandise and took me to the Río Negro, in Brazil. I worked the river between Manaus and Iquitos for a long time without pay. Then she sold me for a big pile of money to another Turkish trader, Miguel Pezil, who took me to the rubber fields of Naranjal and Jaguanari.” “Wait. What did you say? You’ve been to Jaguanari?” Franco, Helí, and Antonio burst out simultaneously: “Jaguanari! Jaguanari! That’s where we’re going!” “That’s right, my friends. And according to that woman, a group of twenty Colombians, including several women, arrived there just one month ago to tap rubber.” “Twenty! Only twenty? There were ­seventy-­two in the party . . .” The conversation lapsed, as we looked at one another with pallid faces and muttered the name unconsciously: “Jaguanari. Jaguanari.”

“I’ve heard about Barrera,” said don Clemente Silva, after we’d told him our story, “but I’ve never laid eyes on him. I know that he does business with Pezil and Cayenne and that the three are going to dissolve their partnership rather Part Two · 119

than pay Zoraida what they owe her. I know that Barrera was supposed to bring two hundred workers from Colombia, but he sold so many of them along the way that he showed up, finally, with a tenth of the workers he’d promised. Colombians don’t bring much in this market because they say we’re rebellious and prone to run away. I can take you to talk with that woman, but we can’t rush things. I’ve got to stay on duty here as lookout until next Saturday.” “What if the relief lookout sees us with you?” “It won’t happen. He’ll come down the Papunagua, and we’ll start early, by the new trail, leaving the fire lit so he’ll see I haven’t been gone long. From the roof, we can see far up and down the river, so we’ll spot him coming. I still don’t know how I didn’t spot you.” “Never mind about that. So, you’re saying that we’ve got to wait?” “We’ve got to arrive at Cayenne’s base when the overseer—Váquiro he’s called, and he’s a badass—is away. The rubber trees are scattered through the forest, see, and each tapper has a circuit, where he tends a trail of tapped trees oozing sap that he collects in a bucket. Every so often, the overseers go out to inspect the trails. Mostly, though, they stay at the company installation, with whatever women they’ve got. Just a rickety pier on the riverbank with a large, thatched structure or two, to store rubber, provisions, and sometimes merchandise for sale. The company installations are always guarded. I’ll lead you to Cayenne’s base, and you can go in alone, saying you’ve been robbed, that you were bringing a shipment of fresh manioc for the rubber tappers, and that armed men stole it. They’ll assume it was Funes’s people who stole it, before Cayenne strung them up. Then say you lost your canoe in the rapids, that I spotted you on the riverbank and showed you the trail to Guaracú, and that you are there asking for help. They’ll like that story, because it makes Cayenne look good.” “And you think they’ll believe it?” “I’ll show up afterward to confirm it.” “And they won’t put us to work?” observed Correa. “Mulato,” I admonished him, “you’re worrying about that when we’re risking our lives in a great adventure?” “The mulato’s got a point,” continued Silva. “Cayenne is ruthless. True, you’re just passing through and owe him nothing, but when he gets back, if he decides to accuse you of vagrancy—” “Vagrancy? How does that work?” “This is what I was telling you. Every trader has his installation, surrounded by trails of rubber trees scattered through the forest. The tappers are Indians or poor devils like us. According to the law in these parts, they 120 · The Vortex

sign up for two years minimum, and in that time they aren’t allowed to change owners. Plus, the workers are usually in debt, and they can’t quit while they owe the company money. They’re in debt because the company advances them food, tools, and supplies, at exorbitant prices. Then it buys their buckets of sap at ridiculously low ones. Plus, most workers can’t read and never have much idea what gets written in their accounts. The books are always cooked in favor of the company. In practice, rubber tappers are no better than slaves. They can’t ever work off their debts, and when a man dies, his son sometimes inherits the debt and has to slave in his father’s place. “The overseers are the workers’ worst enemies. They cheat us of our wages, abuse our wives and children, and assign us to work unproductive circuits with widely spaced trees. If they want to, they can easily murder us. They just write in their book that so-­and-­so died of fever or ran away owing money. End of story. “Sure, some of the tappers aren’t much better than the overseers. Some enlist without intending to work, just for the initial cash advance, then devote themselves to stealing from the other tappers. They sell what they steal at another company’s installations.” “So that’s the vagrancy you mentioned?” “Any unemployed worker is considered a ‘vagrant’ unless he has papers issued by the company—a passport, they call it—indicating that he’s paid all his debts. All the company thugs everywhere are constantly checking workers’ papers. They are super strict about it.” “We don’t owe anybody money.” “But you don’t have company passports, which makes you vagrants if Cayenne decides you are. It isn’t just you! What happens if the overseer simply refuses to issue a passport? What happens if it gets lost or someone takes it? That last thing is really common. Somebody captures you, takes your passport, and claims he never saw it. Now you’re a vagrant. Now you’ll be forced to work for him while he ‘investigates’ your legal situation. And the years pass, and your slavery never ends. That’s exactly what Cayenne has done to me. “Sixteen years I’ve been here. Sixteen years of misery. Only one thing has kept me going. Something belongs to me, something I’m going to carry back where I came from, if I can only get away. It’s a little box, a little box full of bones.”

“In order to tell you my story,” he began that afternoon, “I have to get over my shame. Deep down inside, everybody’s hiding an ugly secret of some Part Two · 121

sort. Mine is the shame brought to my family by my daughter María Gertrudis, who ‘ate the cake before her wedding,’ as they say!” There was so much pain in don Clemente’s words that we pretended not to understand his meaning. Franco concentrated on paring his fingernails with a pocketknife. Helí Mesa used a stick to make parallel lines in the dirt. I lit a cigarette, inhaled thoughtfully, and blew smoke rings. Only Antonio Correa paid open attention to the wrenching narrative. “Yes, my friends,” continued the old man, “the miscreant seduced her in my absence, with false promises of marriage. My son, my little Luciano, saw what was happening. He left school and walked into town, where I had modest employment, often not sleeping at home. Luciano told me that he’d heard the lovers whispering outside at night. He had told his mother already, but she only scolded him. And what did I do? The same! I scolded the poor, brave boy, saying that his sister would never dishonor us so. I even told him not to speak against the engagement, which had already been made public by an exchange of rings. The poor boy declared to me that his sister had already dishonored the family and that he could not face his classmates. “So at last, I accepted the truth. Imagine my grief ! I had to disown my beloved daughter! I put Luciano on a donkey and sent him home with a stern letter for my wife. Then I went to the authorities, demanding justice, and each time I had to swallow my pride, describing the sordid details. And after hearing it all they’d shrug their shoulders. ‘Too bad,’ they’d say, prattling on about how hard it is to raise children and about the heavy responsibility borne by parents. “And when at last I got to my house, a new horror awaited me. There were my son’s things, his toys, his books, his awards—abandoned! Some things seemed to be missing from his drawer, but he’d left the cap that his sister had embroidered for him, the watch that I had given him, and the saint’s medal that his mother had hung around his neck to keep him safe. On his desk lay his writing slate, with a cross and the words ‘good-­bye, good-­bye’ written underneath. “My wife cried until she died of grief, madness, and exhaustion, wailing, ‘Where are my children? Give me my children!’ “I could find no consolation to give her because I could find none for myself. Finally, I lied, saying that our daughter had married after all, and that Luciano had gone away to boarding school, but she didn’t believe me. She died gazing at Luciano’s writing slate with its sad message. When I placed it in her coffin, I spoke these words over her dead body: “‘I swear by God and God’s justice that I will bring Luciano to your graveside, whether he’s dead or alive. You will be reunited with him.’ 122 · The Vortex

“And I kissed her forehead . . .” The old man wept. “Don Clemente, perhaps it’s best not to relive such painful moments. Let us respect the sacredness of your sentiments by requesting their omission from this account. Tell us about your exodus to the jungle.” The old man wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “All right. I followed Luciano toward the Putumayo. He’d headed for the rubber fields, you see. In Sibundoy, someone told me they’d seen him, a pale boy who looked only about twelve years old, they said, wearing short trousers, in the company of several men who were all signed up to tap rubber in the jungle. He wouldn’t say his age or his name or where he was going, but his friends talked about working for Larrañaga and Vega, two Colombian associates of the Peruvian operation called Casa Arana, the richest and most ruthless rubber trading house in the upper Amazon basin. Arana has enslaved thirty thousand Indians, they say. “At Mocoa—the last Colombian town in that direction—I vacillated. Luciano had passed through all right, but many routes led from there to the rubber fields, and all seemed equally forbidding. I chose the overland route from Mocoa to Puerto Limón, on the Caquetá River, and from there by boat down to the Amazon, then upriver to the rubber zones of El Encanto and La Florida. “Also at Mocoa, I had the good fortune to meet a fine Colombian citizen by the name of Custodio Morales, who has a major land claim on the Cuimañí River. He offered me his aid, protection, and detailed guidance on the route that I would have to travel to La Florida. He took me as far as Puerto Pizarro on his own boat, warned me about the deadly Araraquara rapids, and told me how to find the path overland to the Caraparaná, where the Peruvian traders have their big installations. “Sick and alone, I managed to arrive in one piece, and I got a contract— signed up to tap rubber. No one whom I asked recognized my description of Luciano, and yet I was determined to stay for a while and search thoroughly. Sometimes I tried to cheer myself by confirming his absence. At least he did not have to experience the brutal immorality of the Casa Arana. But it was cold comfort. Luciano was surely working in another place just like this one, exposed to similar baseness and cruelty, experiencing identical misery and humiliation. “The overseer began to complain about my work, and one fine day he crossed my face with his whip and left me overnight in the stocks, a little piece of hell from the European Middle Ages. They sold my contract to the Part Two · 123

operators of another rubber zone, and the following night, still bound hand and foot, I found myself in a canoe bound for El Encanto. I didn’t mind. In fact, I was delighted.” Don Clemente Silva fell silent. He touched his forehead with trembling hands, as if still feeling the overseer’s whip snaking across it. Then he resumed. “El Encanto was really a detour, or a two-­year intermission, in my quest, gentlemen. From there I escaped to La Chorrera.”

“I recall that, on the night I arrived, which was not long before Lent, they were celebrating carnival. A rowdy crowd was getting very drunk and loud in front of the main veranda of the company store. There were Indians of different tribes, blacks from the Caribbean, whites from Colombia, Venezuela, Peru, and Brazil—shouting for drink, shouting for women, shouting for the little stuff that means so much in the jungle. From inside the building, the employees of the company store were throwing them buttons, cigarettes and chewing tobacco, cans of tuna and boxes of crackers, shoes and underwear. Those who were too drunk to catch one of these flying treasures made a game of pushing their companions on top of anything that fell to the ground, creating piles of laughing and kicking bodies. To the side, where kerosene lamps guttered black smoke in the evening breeze, more nostalgic workers listened to music in rustic styles that reminded them of their Colombian homes. I heard joropos from the llanos, bambucos from the Andean valleys, cumbias from the Caribbean coast. “Suddenly, a burly, scowling overseer climbed on a table and fired his Winchester into the air. An expectant silence followed, and all faces turned toward the prospective orator. ‘Rubber tappers,’ he said, ‘you’ve seen the generosity of the Casa Arana, which now controls both El Encanto and La Chorrera. Now you must work hard to deserve the company’s generosity. Be cooperative and obedient. The company store is out of stock, so be patient if you’re waiting for clothes. If you’re asking for women—hey, listen up— you’ll be glad to hear that forty are on the way. That’s right, forty, to reward the deserving! Plus, an expedition will leave soon to bring Indian women, Andoques and Guarichas. Any Indians who have wives and daughters here should bring them in tomorrow for registration. Got it?’ This lovely speech was translated and repeated in various Indian languages, provoking new rounds of exclamations and applause, as the party continued. 124 · The Vortex

“I slipped through the crowd, hoping, for once, not to find my son. But still I searched in every corner and asked, Do you know a boy named Luciano Silva? Have you heard of a trader, Larrañaga, from Pasto? How about a fellow named Vega, Juancho Vega, also from Pasto? “Guffaws were the only reply that I got. These people knew something. I decided that I should look inside the company store, but armed guards barred my entrance. Did I want rum? Armed employees were giving it away, over there, to a line of workers holding cups and gourds. One put kerosene in a can and repeatedly offered to serve it to Indians in the line, which he thought was funny, but none accepted, so he threw the kerosene on the last ones to refuse. I don’t know who struck the match, but in an instant a crackling ball of flame engulfed the Indians. Screaming and crowned with fire, they plunged through the uncooperative tumult to immerse themselves in the river, which swiftly swept them away, already dying. “The company big shots appeared on the veranda at that point. They had been playing poker, still held their cards in their hands, in fact. ‘What’s going on?’ they asked. Enough unruly behavior! Barchilón the Jew worried that such careless play might set fire to the company storehouses, and then where would they be? ‘Enough fun!’ announced Juanchito Vega, standing there big as life, and Larrañaga, looking at his cards, repeated the order. Then they wrinkled their noses at the stink of burned human flesh, spat at the workers, and went back inside, shaking their heads. “Each overseer rounded up his tappers with shouts and kicks and blows of his rifle butt. And having counted them, he herded them toward the buildings where they were to sleep off the alcohol. I managed to shout, over the relentless din: ‘Luciano! Luciano! Your father’s here!’”

“The next day put my patience to the test. It was almost two in the afternoon, and all the company big shots were still asleep. That morning, when the tapping crews went out to work, I came upon a big black fellow from Martinique who was sharpening his machete using the leather sheath like a razor strop. He recognized me and asked me why I was there. “‘I’m here to tap rubber, just like you.’ “‘You’re a runaway. You ran away from El Encanto.’ “‘It all belongs to the same owners, right?’ “‘You’re the one who carved a message on all the trees. You should be glad they let you get away.’ Part Two · 125

“I cut off the risky dialogue when I saw the bookkeeper coming to open the company office. He did not look up when I wished him a good afternoon, but I walked right up to the counter and addressed him with fearful respect. “‘Señor Loaíza, if it’s not a lot of trouble, I’d like to know the amount of my son’s account with the company.’ “‘His debt? You want to buy it? Have they told you it’s for sale?’ “‘His name is Luciano Silva.’ “The man opened a heavy ledger book and, picking up a pencil, made a few calculations. My knees were shaking. I’d found Lucianito! “‘Two thousand two hundred pesos in Peruvian currency,’ affirmed Loaíza, ‘plus the surcharge for early termination of the contract.’ “‘Surcharge?’ “‘Of course. We’re not in the business of selling workers. Quite the opposite. We need all the workers that we can get.’ “‘Can you tell me where he is right now?’ “‘Your kid? What do I know? Do I look like an overseer? Get out of here!’ “Unfortunately, the guy from Martinique stepped inside at that instant. “‘Señor Loaíza,’ he exclaimed, ‘don’t waste your time with this lazy old man! He ran away from La Florida and El Encanto, too. He’s got a screw loose. Every tree he sees, he carves a message on. Go out on any tapping circuit around here, and you’ll see, something about Clemente Silva was here looking for his son. Have you ever seen such a crazy old coot?’ “Both men hooted in my face, but I stood tall and, with all the strength in my old arm, punched the bookkeeper. The black fellow threw me against the door, and I fell to the floor, but I arose shedding tears of pride and satisfaction.”

“A threatening, sleepy voice growled in the next room, and a fat man with swollen features, a yellowish complexion, and breasts like a woman’s appeared in the doorway. Before he spoke, the bookkeeper gave him a hurried account of the situation. “‘Señor Arana, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I could just die. This fellow came to ask about his debt, but when I told him the amount, he attacked me. He tried to tear up the account book, he called you a crook, and he threatened to murder us all.’ “The black fellow nodded at these words, and I was still too wrought up to deny them, but Arana’s reaction disconcerted the two liars. After 126 · The Vortex

remaining silent for a moment, he placed his hands on my shoulders and inquired: “‘How old is Luciano Silva, your son?’ “‘Not yet fifteen.’ “‘And you’re willing to clear both accounts, yours and your son’s? How much do you owe?’ “‘I don’t know, sir.’ “‘How about five thousand for both?’ “‘Yes! I don’t have the money here, but I own a house in Pasto. I went to school with Larrañaga and Vega. They can tell you.’ “‘Forget about them. They won’t help you.’ “Opening the door, he took me outside and continued: “‘Don’t you have rubber to pay me with?’ “‘No, sir.’ “‘Come on! Don’t you know who’s cheating the company, hiding their own stash of rubber on the side? Whatever you lead me to, we can split between us.’ “‘No, sir.’ “‘Could you get some stashed rubber? On the Caquetá, for example? Because, if you know who’s got it, and where they’ve got it, I know some big, strong guys who’ll help you take it. The law will never be the wiser, and we can split the take.’ “The man turned my stomach, but I was careful not to show it. I pretended to consider his cynical offer and, believing himself persuasive, he tried to close the deal. “‘I propose it only because I can tell that you are an honest man. I can see it in your face. Otherwise, I’d have to treat you as a runaway. I’d refuse to sell your son, and I’d bury you both in the jungle, far from one another, at the most remote operations I’ve got. And you don’t have any other way to pay me, after all.’ “‘It’s true, sir. For that very reason, I want to be sure that I can deliver on what I promise. First let me do a bit of reconnoitering on the Caquetá. Then I think I’ll need to cut one or two new trails to facilitate our movements. Then we’ll talk about who, where, and how much rubber.’ “‘An excellent plan! We shall do just as you say. While you take care of that, I’ll take care of your son. Tell them at the store that you need a Winchester, a compass, provisions . . . oh, and take an Indian carrier.’ “‘Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not increase my debt.’ “‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay. It’s carnival time, and I’m feeling generous!’” Part Two · 127

“The company overseers seethed with envy. My company passport allowed me to travel wherever I liked, and it obligated officials of the Casa Arana to facilitate my requests. I was authorized to select up to thirty employees, requisitioned whenever, from any crew, to accompany me. “Instead of ascending the Caquetá, I went up the Putumayo. There I was stopped by ‘the Panther,’ a company lookout who held me prisoner for weeks while checking the validity of my passport and orders. The company validated my papers, but it made a specific amendment to them. Under no circumstances was I to requisition the services of an employee by the name of Luciano Silva. “While this frustrated my plans, I kept searching for my son. Whenever I heard a big tree come crashing down, I ran toward the sound, fearing instinctively that Luciano might be crushed underneath it. In those days they were exploiting a lot of ‘black rubber,’ which derives from a different sort of tree. White rubber, the kind we mostly tap these days, drips from incisions cut into the bark of the standing tree. To extract black rubber, they fell the entire tree, so that all the sap drains from it at once. The sap drains into pits where it pools and coagulates slowly over many days. That makes black rubber easy to steal. “One day I caught a tapper covering a black rubber pit with dirt and leaves to conceal it from the company. The rumor was circulating that I was a company spy, and the startled tapper raised his machete to kill me, but he stopped when he found himself looking down the barrel of my gun. “‘I’m not a spy. I won’t tell. Help me, though, please. I’m looking for Luciano Silva. Do you know him?’ “‘Luciano Silva? Yeah, sure. They’ve got him in Capalurco, on the Napo River. He’s a tapper with Juan Muñeiro’s crew.’ “That very afternoon I began to cut a trail in that direction. It took six months, and by the end of it I was reduced to eating wild plants to stay alive. At Tamboriaco, I finally saw people again, tappers from a zone they call El Pensamiento. Their overseer invited me to the company installation, offering me supplies and a canoe. But what he really wanted, when we found ourselves alone that night, was information: “‘So, what are company officials saying about Muñeiro? Do you think they’ll go after him?’ “‘Go after him?’ “‘He took off ! You didn’t know? He took off five months ago with a dozen workers and something like nine tons of rubber.’ 128 · The Vortex

“‘Nine tons of rubber . . .’ “‘Yep. They hit it rich working around Lake Cuyabeno, and then they were out of here, right down the Napo to the Amazon. Muñeiro is probably in Europe by this time. He invited me to go, but I didn’t trust him. I’ve heard that, in the past, a number of overseers have run off with a big load of rubber with the help of their crews. They promised their tappers freedom and a cut of the profits, but they lied. Instead, just as soon as the shipment was safe, they sold the tappers to another company. Muñeiro would do the same in a heartbeat, if you ask me.’ “Hearing this news laid waste to all my plans and wrecked my hopes. I had only one consolation. If my son had escaped from this hell, if he were in Europe or perhaps the United States, I could endure my perpetual slavery knowing that he was safe. “‘On the other hand,’ continued my interlocutor, ‘some say these workers haven’t run off. Some say they’re with you, that you’re taking them somewhere nobody can guess.’ “‘That’s absurd. I’ve never even been on the Napo.’ “‘Yeah, it’s queer, ain’t it? You know how each crew watches the others. Anything untoward, and we’re supposed to let the big boss know. Well, so I sent a message to El Encanto saying Muñeiro had disappeared, and the answer came back: find out if you had taken them on the Caquetá. And, as a precaution, they ordered me to send them Luciano Silva. They’ve been waiting on you for a while! There’s a bunch of people out looking for you. My advice to you is, go get that cleared up. Tell them that we’re out of provisions and that my whole crew’s got fever.’ “Two weeks later I showed up at El Encanto and turned myself in. I’d been gone for eight months. I told them I’d found a lot of rubber and that I had nothing to do with Muñeiro, but they flogged me for nine days in a row, twenty lashes a day, with a sprinkle of salt in my wounds every day. After the fifth day, I couldn’t stand up, so they dragged the mat where I lay onto an anthill. Well, I got up then, somehow, and my tormentors died laughing. “My hopes were gone. I became, once again, the oldest, most ­broken-­ down tapper in the Amazon jungle. By then Luciano must have been about nineteen.”

“At that time, something wonderful happened in my life. A Frenchman whom everyone called simply ‘the monsieur’ came to Amazonia as an Part Two · 129

explorer and a naturalist. Among the rubber workers, it was whispered that a famous museum or geographical society had paid his costs, but later it seemed that the rubber barons themselves were doing it. After all, my dear friend Larrañaga supplied him with provisions and carriers! They called me from the Cahuinarí crew to be his guide because I know my way around like nobody else. And they gave him free rein, to travel wherever he wanted. “So my machete and I opened a path through the jungle, and behind came the carriers, and finally the monsieur, observing plants and animals as he went along. At night he’d set up his tripod on the riverbank and make his scientific calculations about the stars while I stood and held the flashlight. In fractured Spanish, he tried to explain how I should help him determine the path of the sun and the precise directions of its rise and setting. “He was always kind. Seeing me barefoot, he gave me boots. Seeing me feverish, he gave me injections. He always left me a sip of wine in his glass, and rare was the evening when he didn’t offer me a cigarette. For a while, he seemed not to realize that men like me lived almost as slaves. How could they treat us like beasts, those gracious, h ­ oney-­tongued owners who entertained him so lavishly at La Chorrera and El Encanto? Then one day when we were on an old path that connects two abandoned rubber camps in Yacuruma, the monsieur stopped and looked for a long time at a particular tree. It was an enormously old rubber tree, tapped for years, its bark a veritable landscape of thick scars, ridges, and lumps. “‘Monsieur wishes to take a photograph?’ “‘Possibly. I’m trying to make out these carved letters.’ “‘Some message from the tappers?’ “‘I don’t know. Look, it starts with a cross.’ “Suddenly I recognized my own lettering disfigured by years of gnarly growth.” “‘Monsieur,’ I murmured. ‘This is a message from me.’ “And I leaned on the trunk and cried.”

“From that moment on, for the first time in my life, I had a powerful friend and protector. The scientist felt sorry for me, and he offered to buy both me and my son from the company. I described the horrible life led by rubber tappers, and to be sure that he believed me, I displayed the end product. “‘Tell me, sir, if my back has suffered less than this old tree.’ 130 · The Vortex

“Raising my shirt, I showed him my scarred flesh. He used his Kodak to document the wounds of a tree that had given its sap and a man who had given his blood to the rubber boom. From then on, he documented many scarred and mutilated workers’ bodies quite openly, to the enormous displeasure of the overseers, despite my repeated warnings about the reaction that was to be expected from the company. He kept right on taking pictures, muttering about how these abuses deserved to be exposed. He really believed that international attention would force local governments to act. He sent photographs to London, Paris, and Lima, and considerable time passed. Nothing. “So he decided to take his denunciation straight to the company big shots, and he sent me to La Chorrera with a packet of letters and photographs. Only Barchilón was there. As soon as he read the letters, he called me to his office. “‘Where did you get those boots?’ he growled, after looking me up and down. “‘The monsieur gave them to me, along with these clothes.’ “‘And where is that good-­for-­nothing now?’ “‘He’s camped between the Campuya and the L ­ agarto-­cocha,’ I affirmed, lying. ‘More or less thirty days from here.’ “‘What does he think he’s doing? Who gave him permission to go around taking pictures? Why the devil is he stirring up my workers?’ “‘I really don’t know, sir. He doesn’t talk much, and when he does, his accent makes it hard to know what he’s saying.’ “‘Why does he want to pay your debt?’ “‘He just wants to.’ “The furious Jew went to the door and looked at several of the photographs in brighter light. “‘Wait a minute. This is your back!’ “He ripped off my shirt, but fortunately, I squirmed and shook too much for the resemblance to be confirmed. The furious man went to his desk, picked up a ­steel-­tipped pen and threw it hard enough to stick in my shoulder blade. Blood spilled down my flank. “‘Get out of the office before you get your filth on the floorboards. Pig!’ “He pushed me out to the veranda and blew a whistle. Culebrón, an overseer I knew, appeared immediately, and the two asked me a thousand questions that I tried to answer as unhelpfully as possible. When they were finished, Barchilón looked again at my boots. “‘Put leg irons around those boots. I think they’re a little big.’ Part Two · 131

“They did so, as Culebrón selected four men to ‘take an answer’ to the monsieur, who was never seen again.”

“For us workers, the following year brimmed with expectations. I don’t know how, but a small, independent newspaper began to circulate in the rubber fields. It was La Felpa, published in the Peruvian city of Iquitos by the crusading journalist Saldaña Roca, and its columns flamed with denunciations and demanded justice on behalf of the rubber tappers of Peru. Copies of the newspaper got so ragged from being handled that we had to hold them together with a transparent coating of rubber sap. That way, they could be rolled up and hidden inside lengths of bamboo, especially tool handles. “The publication was discovered only because an Ecuadoran tapper snitched to a company guard. They caught a worker reading aloud from La Felpa to his fellow workers, so the bastards sewed his eyes shut and dripped melted wax in the ears of his listeners. The overseer decided to deliver the newspaper to the company big shots, and because he didn’t have a canoe, he ordered me to guide him overland. When we arrived, I got another surprise: an inspector had been sent by the Peruvian government, and the man was taking testimony right there in the company offices. “I told him my name, and then, in front of everyone, he asked whether I desired to continue working for the company. My loud negative response alarmed the audience, but not the inspector, who declared firmly that, by his order, I was free to leave, and he asked for my identifying physical marks. “‘Here they are,’ I replied, removing my shirt. “The audience turned pale, and the inspector adjusted his spectacles to look at my back. “‘You are free to leave tomorrow,’ he repeated, without asking me anything else. “The company big shots murmured their obedience with bowed heads. Then one of them spoke up with words that sounded carefully chosen in advance. “‘Quite a curious spectacle, this man’s scars, no? Our honored guest might well be surprised to learn of their true origin. The botanical secrets of the Amazon jungle never cease to amaze. Our honored guest may never have heard of the mariquita tree, but a distinguished French scientist has recently studied it at the behest of the company. Mariquita trees offer delicious, perfumed shade, beckoning the tired worker to nap there, but woe 132 · The Vortex

to him who fails to resist that temptation! When he awakes, his body will be covered with red blotches, producing the most intense itch imaginable. Scratching them opens them to infection, and infection leaves the scarring and wrinkling that you see on the back of this unfortunate old man. Despite our warnings, many inexperienced workers fall prey to the mariquita tree.’ “‘Sir . . . ,’ I said, but no one noticed. “‘In other words, the mariquita tree is yet another obstacle that our company faces in its tireless attempt to modernize Peru. Make no mistake, to create an enlightened citizenry in the jungle is a very tough business. Aside from the Casa Arana, the Peruvian nation has practically no presence in this part of our territory. Therefore, we desire for patriotic reasons that our honored visitor should elucidate the foul accusations that besmirch the name of Peru. Note that our greatest accusers are, and have always been, individuals of other nationalities. These malignant accusers, and their foul mouthpieces, such as the hired scribbler Saldaña Roca, would like nothing better than to see our great nation deprived of its natural resources. Peruvian weakness in the Amazon can only benefit our competitors in Brazil and elsewhere. Mark my words, Peruvian sovereignty is at stake here. “‘Let us return, then, to the accusations of mistreatment. This company opens its arms to any man willing to contribute honest labor to better himself in life. We have all kinds of workers, useful ones, but also bad, lazy, and rebellious ones, from all over. The huge diversity of their origins and customs, their typical indiscipline and lack of strong morals, these elements pose an enormous challenge to our civilizing mission. It is shameful but true; the mariquita tree has become a convenient resource in the reluctant workers’ arsenal of tricks. Obviously, the overseers must discipline our workforce, and the punished workers—principally, I am afraid, persons of Colombian nationality—use the mariquita tree to avenge themselves. The slightest rash or scratch becomes an excuse to denounce the overseers as heartless monsters.’ “The speechifying big shot turned to his colleagues and invited their testimony: “‘Is it, or is it not, the case that the mariquita tree abounds in the rubber zones? Does it, or does it not, produce the epidemiological reactions that I have outlined?’ “‘Yes, it does! Yes, it does!’ they shouted with one voice. “‘Fortunately,’ continued the speaker with a smirk, ‘the Peruvian nation has always supported our patriotic initiatives, and we now request that the government militarize the workforce by supplying sergeants to put an end Part Two · 133

to the workers’ trickery and maintain public order. The company promises to pay handsomely, and the benefits to the nation will be handsome, as well. The government will see Peruvian sovereignty reinforced without significant cost to the national treasury. The workers’ interests will receive the best protection imaginable. And the company will get the stimulus and recognition that it deserves.’ “The inspector smiled and nodded in agreement.”

“Balbino Jácome, an old compatriot of mine whose leg had been paralyzed by a tarantula bite, came to visit me at nightfall. He rested his crutches against the wall, next to where I lay in my hammock, and he spoke in a quiet voice. “‘Brother, when you get back among Christians, have a mass said for me.’ “‘What? As a reward for supporting the abuses of the company bosses?’ “‘No. In memory of our lost hope.’ “‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘Don’t ask me for anything. You’re an abject servant of Juancho Vega—if possible, more disloyal to Colombia than Vega himself— and you are a traitor to your fellow workers,.’ “‘Yet, my compatriots do have something to thank me for. You’re leaving, so I can tell you plainly. I have pretended to support the company, but only pretended, taking the place of someone surely worse than me. Suppose a rumor was going to hurt x or y workers. I’d pass the rumor along but change it to make it harmless. Was a guy being mistreated by his overseer? I’d pretend to approve the mistreatment, then slyly punish the overseer. I know the overseers’ secrets, see, and I’ll tell them: say, you know, the big shots have found out about x or y. They appreciate it, which gives me influence, and I use my influence to protect Colombians. “‘I don’t get any credit, of course. On the contrary, most men regard me as you seem to do. But I’m not a mercenary, I’m a patriot. You yourself will no doubt return to your Andean valley, so similar to my own beloved home, despising me as a turncoat. “‘But when they sent you up the Caquetá, didn’t I urge you to take off ? Right? Didn’t I tell you the story of Julio Sánchez, who escaped up the entire length of the Putumayo with his wife, pregnant, to boot, without salt or matches, with all sorts of boats and troops searching for them, so that they traveled only on moonless nights? Remember? It took them so long that, when they finally got to Mocoa, the baby was already old enough 134 · The Vortex

to walk and they went to church leading their kid by the hand! But they made it. “‘You neglected all the advantages I gave you. If only I’d had them, and if only I weren’t a cripple! Many have escaped from here successfully thanks to my advice, but has anyone returned to help me? No. Instead, they run off without telling me, and if they get caught, they blame me. And I have to give them a serious lashing in order to avoid the overseers’ suspicion. And then the workers hate me more. “‘Who do you think told the French scientist to choose Clemente Silva for his guide? What better setup, I ask you, for an escape? And instead of keeping the monsieur out of trouble, you left him alone and came here with those letters for the company, completely screwing up the thing with the inspector.’ “‘Explain what you mean.’ “‘Not now. They’ll hear us in the kitchen. If you want, we can meet later down by the pier and we’ll pretend to go fishing.’ “And that is what we did.”

“There were various sorts of craft at the docks. My companion stopped to talk to a crewman on one of the larger riverboats. I was about to get impatient when I heard them conclude the conversation. The crewman then started the motor and left it to idle softly. He turned on the electric lights, and a fan began to whir. A number of passengers in starched clothing ascended the gangplank, among them a lady covered with lace and jewelry, laughing the way that rich people do. My companion leaned close to me. “‘Look,’ he said in a low voice, ‘our masters are taking tea. The lovely lady to whom the inspector is offering his hand is Zoraida Ayram, the madonna they call her, or the Turk!’ “We took a canoe and paddled upstream a short distance, then tied up on some branches in a side eddy where we could still see the reflections of electric lights rippling on the current. Balbino Jácome continued his exposition: “‘According to Juanchito Vega, the letters that the French scientist sent abroad produced great alarm, especially after he disappeared, and it was all over the newspapers. But Arana lives in Iquitos, and for the last six months he’s been sending copies of the offending newspapers to the company installations in the rubber zones so that they could take precautions, keep it all hush-­hush, you know. That’s not so hard out here in the jungle. At first Part Two · 135

they didn’t tell even me, and when they did, they put me in charge of the company store to reward my loyalty. “‘As storekeeper, when I got a request for quinine and gunpowder from several crews, I’d sent it to them wrapped in our newspaper! I know the overseers, and not one of them can read!’ “‘Brother,’ I exclaimed, ‘I have to believe you now, because I saw one of those wrappings myself ! That’s the whole reason I’m here!’ “‘Better not thank me. We’re totally screwed now.’ “‘Why do you say that?’ “‘Because of the damned inspector and his useless visit that, in the end, won’t accomplish anything. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing. For example, you know the stocks where they imprison us, hands and feet, to fry in the sun, whenever they want? Well, they hauled that big mahogany plank down to the dock, and when the famous inspector got off the boat, it was his gangplank! He had no idea what it was, didn’t notice it had blood on it. Up there in the yard, he didn’t see the marks left on the ground by prisoners begging for water, begging for shade.’ “‘The inspector seems like a good man to me,’ I insisted. “‘Yeah yeah, but still. They’ve sent all the unhappy tappers far away and brought Indians who don’t even speak Spanish to the rubber works surrounding company installations. The inspector will visit a maximum of two or three operations, and close by. Meanwhile, the Casa Arana has more than a hundred crews at work, some of them several weeks’ travel away from here. A true inspection would take five months at least. The inspector arrived only a week ago, and now he’s already leaving! Congratulations, Your Excellency, on a job well done! “‘In Lima, they’ll be glad to hear that the problem’s been solved. Solved! His excellency went to the scary jungle to hear the complaints of the workers and extend to them the benefits of habeas corpus. He imposed the law and allowed the homesick to leave freely. His visit will redound to the greater glory of the nation, and from now on critics of the Casa Arana will encounter a firm response. The conscience of Peru can rest easy because the accusations have been investigated and dealt with. What remains is calumny, God help us! “‘Do I seem cynical? These are the things that I hear inside the company. They were scared at first, but now they’re joking about it. When the great man went out to inspect an operation or two, the bosses didn’t even worry about going with him. Instead, the bosses sat around in the store making bets about how few workers would dare to say anything at all. Something 136 · The Vortex

like three spoke up, as it turned out, and the inspector solemnly told them that they were free to go.’ “‘Well, it’s something, isn’t it?’ “‘Free to go? No, brother! Think about it. Oh, maybe for the rare worker who’s saved up the means, but most of these guys have no idea how to cross a thousand miles of jungle by themselves. What about their company account, if they’re owed something? And then, what boat will transport them? What will they tell the garrisons who demand their employment papers along the way? They’re going to need some money, too, and where will it come from? See what I mean?’ “‘You’re right. I’ll raise that with the inspector.’ “‘What? And interrupt his chat with the madonna?’ “‘I’ll ask him to take me with him.’ “‘Well, don’t get your bowels in an uproar. Tomorrow is another day. Remember that crewman I was talking to? He’s going to make sure the boat’s motor has a problem tomorrow morning, and it will last until I tell him to fix it. It’s nice to run the company store! I guess that stooges like me are good for something after all, huh?’ “‘Forgive me for what I said.’ “‘Your penance is to listen carefully.’ “And, unconcerned with my apologies, Balbino Jácome finished his bitter tirade. “‘Our valiant inspector is leaving without a single prisoner, although the company would gladly have turned over several of its overseers whom they esteem most dangerous, not the ones that abuse the workers, mind you, the ones that have sticky fingers. The poor fool never had a chance. Before he arrived, a rumor circulated that the company was going to test the loyalty of the workers by sending around an inspector who would pose as a judge from Lima. It worked like a charm. Our friend from Lima encountered only multitudes of blissful, grateful workers who professed never to have heard allegations of murder, torture, or systematic abuse. “‘And of course, the most systematic abuse is not in the jungle, it’s in the account books. If he had looked at them, he would have found that all the workers have more in the debit column than the credit column. In fact, there are some overseers who claim to carry a mental account of each tapper’s earnings. The sons of bitches don’t even write most of it down. What is written down would astound the good inspector, though. Indians who’ve worked for six years and apparently still owe for the manioc of the first month. Tappers who bring in kilos of rubber at five centavos. Cotton unPart Two · 137

dershirts that sell for ­twenty-­five pesos, as if they were formal evening wear. Boys who inherit enormous debts from their fathers, whom the company murdered, from their mothers, whom the company used as prostitutes— debts that will never be paid. If those boys don’t take off, they’ll die here.’ “My informant paused to offer me tobacco. I made a last attempt to defend the inspector. “‘I’ll bet that the inspector doesn’t have a warrant to examine the company’s books.’ “‘Doesn’t matter if he does. They are well hidden.’ “‘But surely he has collected information on the crimes that were in the newspapers. Maybe he’s just pretending to be convinced by the company.’ “‘Doesn’t matter if he is. The proof of a specific abuse or two won’t do anything anyway. Crimes happen everywhere. They’ll blame a few bad apples. And if they decide to send us judges and police, well, the company will be delighted because it will control them, too. Remember, they’re hoping to militarize all this, and there won’t be a peep out of Colombia, mark my words. Have you heard that Arana runs the Colombian consulate in Iquitos? Don’t ask me how that works! A lot of the Colombians who have been operating in the rubber zones are selling out before they get pushed out by Arana. They were howling for protection from our military, but the president of Colombia has mustered out all official personnel in the Caquetá and Putumayo basins. Colombia’s going to lose some territory, you wait and see. “‘Here’s my advice. If you get out of here, just forget about it! Trying to tell the truth about this green hell will only get you in trouble, whether in Lima or Bogotá. If they ask you about the monsieur, say the company has sent him to explore the unknown. If someone points out that Culebrón was seen carrying the Frenchman’s pocket watch, say that Culebrón was a bad apple, but that he’s dead now, anyway. If they ask about that fellow Chispita, who’s gotten sort of famous, say that it’s unusual for an overseer to speak so many native languages—Yeral, Carijoto, Huitoto, Minane. But if you want an anecdote, don’t tell how he used to hide the Indian tappers’ loincloths and then dock their wages for lax morals. Don’t tell how he forced them to bury a load of rubber so that he could reveal their attempted larceny and get a reward from the company. Tell them about his fingernails, that he kept long, pointed, and sharp, and tipped with the same poison that the Indians use for their arrows. They’ll eat it up.’ “‘Brother,’ I said, ‘you speak of Lima and Bogotá as if you were sure that I’m getting out of here.’ 138 · The Vortex

“‘That’s right. I know who’ll buy your debt and take you with her— Zoraida Ayram.’ “‘You’re kidding me.’ “‘Not a bit. Yesterday when the inspector called you for interrogation on the veranda, the madonna watched you with binoculars. She was delighted when you loudly declared your desire to leave, and asked did I know you. Yes, ma’am, I said. He is just the sort of man you’re looking for! Clemente Silva is nicknamed Compass. The old man’s a rubber zone guide like no other, who also reads and writes, does multiplication and division, and knows how to buy and sell all varieties of rubber. I really did give you the hard sell. An experienced smuggler and river pilot, and a superb penman for secretarial or clerical needs! And such a man can be bought, ma’am, for a song. If you’d had him with you during that business with Juan Muñeiro, you’d have no complications to deal with now.’ “‘Wait! Complications with Juan Muñeiro?’ “‘They’ve been taken care of. The madonna bought rubber from Muñeiro’s crew when they decided to take off. The Peruvian authorities in Iquitos confiscated it from her and almost kept it. She won in the end, though. She’s not beautiful for nothing. Peruvian military detachments have orders not to let her ascend the northern tributaries of the Amazon, but, of course, here she is anyway. And you see how swimmingly she gets along with the great man. I’m sure he’s promised to put in a good word for her in Lima.’ “‘The madonna’s sure to know something about Luciano. It doesn’t matter whether she buys me or not. I’m going to talk to her!’ “Three weeks later, I was on my way.”

“Midstream on the wide Amazon, the madonna’s boat was towing a b­ arge-­ load of rubber to market. And there I was on the barge, controlling the movements of the clumsy craft with a long sweep, half dead of sunstroke. We stopped incessantly at the tiny huts and docks that dot the riverbank, peddling small merchandise in exchange for provisions such as pirarucu fish of monstrous size, with as much edible flesh as a full-­grown steer, or for products of the forest, such as Brazil nuts—because virtually no one practices agriculture in that huge swath of the continent. Zoraida herself did the bartering, and after each stop she had the pleasure of watching me inscribe her profits in the account book. Part Two · 139

“Very quickly, however, my mistress revealed her grasping, arbitrary character. She refused to believe that I was Luciano’s father, and she said scornful things about Juan Muñeiro. By dint of humiliating insistence I was able to learn that she’d gotten burned by Muñeiro. She’d bought bad rubber from Muñeiro’s renegade crew just before they took off for Colombia—up the Caquetá, then up the Apoporis, to the Taraira, from which there’s an overland trail to the Vaupés. The madonna followed them the whole way, trying to get her money back. All she got for her pains, though, was speculation about her supposed romance with Muñeiro or perhaps one of his crew. “‘Don’t forget who you are, old man,’ she shouted at me one day. ‘You’re a pauper, and you are my servant. Where do you get off questioning me about my affairs? Enough about Lucianito! Is he a handsome young man and how’s his health? And is he starting to have a beard? And does he have nice manners? And . . . I couldn’t care less! Get it, old man? I’m not in business for the eye candy or to make a study of pretty faces. Now, shut up, or I’ll sell your contract to someone really nasty.’ “‘Madonna, don’t talk to me that way. We aren’t in the rubber zone any more. And I don’t know how much more suffering I can take. Ungrateful children are the worst thing of all! Eight years I’ve been here searching for my son, and in all that time, can it be that he never thought of looking for me? The thought of it makes me sick. It makes me want to throw myself into the river right now. I just want to be sure Luciano knows I’m looking for him, that he’s seen my messages, that he remembers his mother.’ “‘Don’t you let go of that sweep, old man! Throw yourself in the river? What about the two thousand Peruvian pesos that I paid for your debt? Who’ll pay me my two thousand pesos?’ “‘I don’t even have the right to die?’ “‘Of course not! It would be fraud.’ “‘You don’t think I’ve earned freedom with eight years of labor in the most excruciating conditions?’ “‘How about what your son stole from me?’ “‘My son doesn’t steal! It doesn’t matter what life he’s had to lead. Don’t confuse him with the rest. He did not sell you the bad rubber! You dealt with Muñeiro, and you didn’t even pay him what you promised. I’ve seen your account books.’ “‘Christ, this geezer is a spy! Thanks a lot, Balbino Jacomé! Just the man that I need. Yeah, right! Old man, I’m going to have you arrested just as soon as we land in Iquitos.’ “‘Fine. I have grave revelations to make to Judge Valcárcel.’ 140 · The Vortex

“‘Aha! You’re planning to make more trouble?’ “‘Not for you. Don’t worry. I won’t mention Muñeiro.’ “‘No, seriously. You’re going to make trouble for Arana, and now he’ll hate me because I brought you to Iquitos. Just hush, why don’t you? And in Manaus, I’ll let you go free. From Manaus, you can go to the Vaupés and embrace your darling son. I’m sure he’s looking for you!’ “‘Whatever happens, I intend to speak in Iquitos with the consul of Colombia. My information is important for my country. And if anything happens to me, my son Luciano Silva will take my place to carry on the struggle.’ “Hours later, we disembarked in Iquitos.”

“The conflict with the madonna did wonders for my reputation. My threat had created a sort of role reversal, turning me into the master, feared by my mistress, viewed with respect by the rest of her crew. The engineer and the steersman, who once forced me to do their laundry, outdid themselves with new expressions of esteem for ‘Señor Silva,’ as they now addressed me. When we stepped ashore, one of them offered me a cigarette, and the other, hat in hand, offered me a light. “‘Señor Silva, we appreciate what you are doing.’ “The madonna’s chambermaid, a dark-­skinned girl from Brazil, asked my two companions to close the curtains on board: “‘The madam’s got one of her sick headaches, and she’s taken two aspirin. We need to hang her hammock as quickly as possible.’ “As the men went to comply, I reviewed my plans. I would go to the Colombian consulate and demand that the consul accompany me to the courthouse. There, I’d denounce the abuses to which my countrymen were falling victim in the jungle, and I’d tell everything I knew about what had happened to the unfortunate French scientist. Next, I’d make a series of undeniable requests: that I be repatriated to Colombia, that the debt-­bound workers of La Chorrera and El Encanto be given their liberty, that thousands of indigenous people be delivered from their torment, that the interests of independent rubber tappers be protected, and that absolute free trade be guaranteed throughout Amazonia. All this after getting a decree regarding parental rights over my minor son, so that I could take him safe home to Colombia. “The madonna’s chambermaid approached me: Part Two · 141

“‘Señor Silva, my mistress asks that you bring the barge cargo through customs. She says that you have her complete trust, that you’re in charge, and that she’ll back up whatever you say.’ “‘Tell her that I’m going first to the Colombian consulate.’ “‘Poor thing, she’s been crying all morning for her dear Lu!’ “‘Who is Lu?’ “‘Lucianito. Lu was the pet name she gave him when they were traveling together on the Vaupés.’ “‘Together?’ “‘Yes, sir, pretty much inseparable. They say he was finding loads of rubber for her. But the person who really knows is my sister. She’s down on the Río Negro these days, shacked up with an overseer who works for the other Turk, Pezil. She was Zoraida’s chambermaid on the Vaupés.’ “The news made me tremble with bitterness and resentment. I turned my head toward the waterfront to conceal my indignation. Without knowing just how, I started walking past groups of garrulous sailors, lines of longshoremen, and the occasional customs official. A man stopped me for my passport. Another asked if I had vegetables for sale. I have no recollection of walking away from the docks, down streets, and across plazas. Somehow, I found myself at a large house with a brass plaque by the door. I knocked. “‘Is the consul at home, please?’ “‘What consul do you mean?’ “‘The consul of the Republic of Colombia.’ “The woman who had answered the door simply laughed and closed it. Glancing around, I saw a flagpole projecting from a façade on the corner. I went inside.’ “‘Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for the Colombian consulate.’ “‘This isn’t it.’ ““I wandered around Iquitos for the rest of the afternoon. Finally, I changed tactics and asked no one in particular: “‘Can you direct me to the consulate of France?’ “The answer was immediate and affirmative. When I arrived, though, the office was closed for the day. A plaque announced office hours from nine to eleven o’clock in the morning, daily.”

“After the initial excitement of my arrival in Iquitos, I felt overcome by the town and felt a certain nostalgia for my life in the jungle. There, at least, 142 · The Vortex

I had acquaintances. There, I never lacked a place to sling my hammock. There, at least, I had a routine, and even my suffering had a comforting regularity. In town, I was a fish out of water. I was no longer accustomed to jocular conversation, or to feeling carefree, or to deciding what to do with myself. I wandered through Iquitos with a fear of annoying people. Nationality is vague in the jungle, but this Peruvian city made me homesick for Colombia. I expected people to ask me suspiciously why I had left my job in the rubber zone. Sudden, loud voices made me jump, and bright lights blinded me—habituated, as I had become, to the perpetual twilight of the forest floor. Freedom didn’t work for me, because I wasn’t free. The owner of my debt was still my master. “I walked down all the streets several times before I realized that the city wasn’t big. Finally, I recognized that I was seeing the same buildings from different angles. Outside one large building where music and applause could be heard, cabs stopped and delivered their passengers. Zoraida Ayram emerged from one of them in the company of a corpulent gentleman with a handlebar mustache. I returned to the riverfront, where I saw the madonna’s steersman and her engineer chatting inside an open-­fronted store. “‘Señor Silva, the barge has been unloaded, and there’s nothing more to do. The steamship that descends the big river to Manaus sails tomorrow at noon, and the madonna has bought passage for herself but not for us. We are to follow in the motor launch, with you in charge. Better save your revelations for Manaus, because here no one will listen. Was the consul encouraging?’ “‘I haven’t even found out where he lives.’ “‘See? Can someone tell us,’ the steersman asked the other customers, ‘if there is a Colombian consul in Iquitos?’ “‘We have no idea.’ “‘You could try the office of Arana, Vega, and Company,’ suggested the engineer. ‘Seems like Juancho Vega used to be the consul.’ “Then the woman behind the store counter, occupied in washing glasses, put in her two cents. “‘The neighborhood tinsmith told me that people call the owner of his shop consul. Maybe he’s Colombian.’ “I took this as a slur on our national honor and replied briskly: “‘A tinsmith consul doesn’t sound very likely to me!’ “Nonetheless, early next morning, while I was waiting for office hours to begin at the French consulate, I went to take a look at the tinsmith’s shop, strolling by it several times on the other side of the street. People in this Part Two · 143

neighborhood got up early, it seemed. The tinsmith’s door opened, and a man wearing a blue apron put a metal brazier on the sidewalk and blew on it with a large bellows. Then he began to solder the hole in a pot. The shop was full of metallic objects in need of repair, including a small still for distilling liquor. “‘Excuse me, does Colombia have a consul in this town?’ “‘He lives upstairs. Should be down anytime.’ “And lo and behold, there he came, in shirtsleeves, sipping his morning cup of hot chocolate. He was no ogre at all, and I addressed him warmly. “‘My friend, you are a sight for sore eyes! I’m here to request repatriation to the land where you and I were born!’ “‘Wait. I’m not Colombian, and furthermore, I don’t get paid for acting as consul. Your country doesn’t repatriate anyone, that I’ve seen. I issue passports—that’s it, that’s all I do—for fifty pesos Peruvian.’ “‘My friend, I’ve come from the Putumayo, and I can prove it by the jaundice in my face, by the rags I’m wearing, by the scars on my back. Take me to the courthouse, because I need to report many crimes.’ “‘Hey, I’m not a lawyer! Better go retain one.’ “‘I have revelations about what happened to the missing French scientist.’ “‘In that case, you should go to the French consulate.’ “‘My minor son was kidnapped in Colombia and brought to Peru.’ “‘You’ll need to deal with that in Lima, I think. What’s your son’s name?’ “‘Luciano. Luciano Silva!’ “‘Uh-­oh. I advise you to be quiet about that surname. The French consul has had some news about a fellow named Silva who was seen at La Chorrera wearing the French scientist’s clothes. An arrest warrant should be issued soon. Have you heard of a pathfinder nicknamed Compass? What is it that you know, anyway?’ “‘Oh, just a bit of hearsay.’ “‘I’ll bet Señor Arana already knows, but I’d tell him about it anyway. And while you’re at it, ask him for a job, too! I’ll put in a good word. Arana’s the man you need to see. He’ll help you out for sure.’ “To conceal my agitation, I said good-­bye without offering him my hand, and then, I couldn’t seem to find the riverfront. When I finally did, the steersman and the engineer along with three other men were already aboard the motor launch, waiting for me. “‘Let’s go!’ I urged. “‘Señor Silva! Come meet these employees of the Turk Pezil, the fat guy that you saw with the madonna going into the movie theater. Their boss is 144 · The Vortex

on the steamer, too. No tickets for the likes of us! But one way or another, we’re off to Manaus! “As I took my seat, one of Pezil’s employees spoke to me: “‘We’re all really sorry about what’s happened.’ “‘Thank you for saying so.’ “‘Right by the Yavaraté rapids, an enormous jacaranda tree!’ “‘What are you saying?’ “‘That’s why they say it will be at least three years before anyone can recover the bones.’ “‘Whose bones?’ “‘Your poor son’s bones. A huge tree fell on him.’ “The motor roared to life, silencing my cry of desperation. “‘A tree! Luciano was killed by a tree!’”

Part Two · 145

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Part Three

III

I am a rubber tapper. I live in the fetid river mud, in the solitude of the forest, with my malarial crew, slicing trees that bleed white blood, like the blood of gods. Thousands of miles from my birthplace, I dread all memories of it, because all are sad. My parents? They grew old in poverty, awaiting the return of their absent son. My younger sisters? They waited with patient optimism and trust until no longer young, hoping for a dowry that never materialized. Sometimes, as I hack at the bleeding bark with my hand ax, I take a notion to vary the arc of its swing just a bit and cut off those worthless fingers that never could hold on to money. What are hands good for, if they don’t produce, don’t steal, and don’t redeem? These hands have wavered when I asked them to end my suffering. And to think that so many denizens of the jungle endure something similar. Who created the gap that yawns between our aspirations and reality? Why were we given wings to live flightless lives? Poverty and aspiration,

stepmother and tyrant, drove us forward, but to no avail. By looking to the heights, we’ve neglected the most fundamental necessities. Turning to those necessities, we’ve lost whatever we had gained. As a result, we are heroes only of mediocrity. The man who saw the resources for a happy life almost within reach has not been able to get rich and leave Amazonia. The man who aimed to win a bride has settled for a concubine. The man who has resisted abuses has been crushed by magnates as impassive as the trees that witness his daily battle against fever, leeches, and insects. I had tried to discount my high hopes, but an exaggerated force lifted them to the stratosphere. High hopes, lost triumphs, forlorn dreams. Look what has become of this poor dreamer! Slave, don’t complain of your toil! Prisoner, don’t lament your imprisonment! Little can you imagine this limitless green dungeon, surrounded by immense rivers on all sides. You ignore the torture of watching rays of sun play, at dusk, on the far bank of a river that you’ll never be able to cross. The leg irons that bite your flesh are kinder than the leeches that nibble at a rubber tapper’s ankles. I have three hundred rubber trees on my circuit, and to tap them all takes nine days. I’ve cleared around the base of each tree, cut its shrouds of hanging vines, lacerated a large area of bark, placed buckets for it to drip into, and made an access trail between my circuit and my camp. Patrolling the trail to keep it open, I often come upon a rival tapper or a renegade trying to steal rubber. Then the clang of machetes rings in the forest, and the buckets of white blood often get an admixture of red drops. But no matter. Every drop contributes to the ten liters that the overseers demand of us every day without fail. Big deal if the fellow who works the next circuit downriver dies of fever! I can imagine him already collapsed in the leaf litter, thrashing at those big, black, stinging flies that won’t let him die in peace. He’s going to stink so much that I’ll have to leave my hut, but not before cleaning out his rubber cache, of course. Someone will do the same with me, as well, when I die. Here I am stealing not to care for my aged parents but to enrich my murderer. Around the great trunk, I tie a length of caraná vine to collect the latex tears and channel them to the bucket. A cloud of mosquitoes rises into my face to take my blood while my hands are occupied, and a rising vapor blurs my vision. This is a death struggle. I torture the tree and the tree tortures me, until one of us succumbs. Man is puny, insignificant, and vulnerable in the vastness of the jungle. It would instantly triumph if all natural forces cooperated to wipe us out. 148 · The Vortex

But perhaps they can’t. Perhaps it isn’t yet time for that final, cataclysmic struggle, not yet time to invoke cosmic forces and die in a blaze of glory. But the time will come. Here’s a rebellion worthy of Satan’s leadership. I have been a rubber tapper. I am still a rubber tapper. My hand ax cuts wood and can cut flesh.

“Don Clemente,” I said, as we took the trail for Guacurú, “the story of your tribulations has won us over. You and I are allies, from now on, in your fight for redemption. I feel myself ready to sacrifice anything for your cause not so much because of your suffering but, rather, because I want to destroy the rapacious beings who have tormented you. Their iniquity, like fire, must be fought with similar means. Only the defeated ask supinely for peace and justice. What has victimhood won for you? Gentleness and restraint only invite further tyranny, and the passivity of the exploited, further exploitation. Your kindness and timidity have only facilitated the crimes against you. “Nonetheless, despite so many missteps, old friend, I’m convinced that our current path leads ultimately to triumph, although I cannot predict what obstacles may lie along that path, nor how they will affect our determination to continue. Dying in the attempt does not worry me. Why worry about death, which has never turned aside great spirits from attempting great things? Let us think, rather, of our destiny. My followers are valiant young men, capable of much. If, however, you fear the face of calamity, choose one of these young men to accompany you, build a raft, and escape from this place immediately. The raft will carry you downriver to safety. I’ll forge ahead with those who remain.” Clemente Silva replied: “What about my only treasure on earth? Don’t you remember that my Luciano’s bones are in the possession of that animal Cayenne? Do you imagine I could leave my treasure in his hands?” For the time being, I had no answer. “My son’s bones are my bond. I have to behave myself so that they let me put them in the sun sometimes, to dry and preserve them. As I’ve said, I don’t even have them all, because the day I exhumed my son I had to leave some finger bones that were still too fresh. I used to carry my treasure wrapped up in my blanket, and when Cayenne captured me, which was after I returned from the Vaupés, on the trail that connects the Isana Part Three · 149

and the Keralí, he tried to make me get rid of them. Now they’re nice and clean and white, and I keep them in an empty kerosene tin underneath Cayenne’s bed.” “Don Clemente, how can you be sure that those bones—” “Are my son’s? Oh, there’s no doubt whatsoever. The teeth are proof positive. One of Luciano’s upper teeth had no room to come in, and it mounted on the others, as I can show you on the skull, which is in perfect shape except for a hole in the forehead. I guess I did that with the pick when I was recovering the bones.” There was a pause. My colleagues, the other members of our silent circle, appeared pensive and may have lost their resolve. Antonio Correa moved closer to don Clemente and spoke to him in a confidential tone: “Pal, enough with the bones. It’s time for us to be heading home. I left my mother alone, and Lord knows what’s happened to my livestock in all this time. Best leave the dead be. You need to bury them and then go on. Don’t be digging them up! Ask your friends to get the bones back and bury them, but underneath a cross this time, and you’ll see, everything will turn around. But make up your mind, and let’s get out of here. Remember where we are. Our first job is to avoid capture by Colonel Funes. This place is crawling with the colonel’s men.” “And, anyway, it’s already decided,” I exclaimed impatiently, “that we’re going to Guaracú. Let’s go!” Helí Mesa knelt by the wooden structure that we were leaving and prepared to set it on fire. Don Clemente watched him without protest. “No, no!” I ordered. “Don’t destroy the poisoned provisions. Leave the structure and the provisions. Hopefully, the colonel’s people will eat them and all die!”

I’d have preferred that my friends march less silently along the trail. Their silence gave free rein to my thoughts, and my thoughts created unease and, eventually, a sort of panic. What were my plans? Why was I so self-­assured? How could I help others when I found myself in such a fix? It was rash to make promises to don Clemente when I’d committed myself to finding Alicia and Barrera. Franco had called me “impulsive, theatrical, and deranged.” Was he right? Gradually, I came to my senses. Deranged? Not very likely! The fever had left me alone for several weeks. There was nothing “deranged” about my 150 · The Vortex

thinking, which remained sharp and clear. Not only had I avoided giving a false impression of confusion. In addition, I perceived the tiniest details of my surroundings. We were traveling below a thin patch in the forest canopy, where the undergrowth got more sun and, therefore, grew thicker than usual. The path had vanished, and don Clemente went ahead of the rest of us, opening the way with his machete and leaving a trail of conspicuously broken branches, the way hunters do, to guide us upon our return. Fidel carried his carbine across his chest, and attached to the barrel, riding on his shoulder blades like a hunchback’s hump, was our bag of precious manioc. The mulato followed, with a couple of paddles and a bundle containing our hammocks and cook pot. The catire came next, with more gear, sucking on the pit of a ripe fruit and, in his right hand, waving a smoking ember from our last campfire, because we were out of matches. Deranged? Me? The idea appeared ridiculous, even malevolent. In a short time, I had developed a logical plan. I would offer myself as a hostage at Guaracú, while old Silva traveled to Manaus carrying secret papers from me to the Colombian consul, denouncing the rampant abuses and requesting that a mission be sent immediately to rescue me and my compatriots. Would a deranged mind think of that? Cayenne would no doubt accept my proposal. In exchange for a useless old man, he’d get a vigorous, young tapper or two—or even more, because even if Antonio left, Franco and Helí would surely not abandon me. I’d win over Cayenne by speaking to him in French: “Monsieur, this old man, ce vieux, is a relation of mine. Please let him go and allow us to work off his debt.” Unquestionably, the ex-­convict would see the advantage of my proposal and jump at it. With a bit of patience, cleverness, and dissimulation, I would easily gain Cayenne’s confidence. Force would absolutely not be necessary. Our work for him would last at most two or three months. I’d convince him that Jaguanari was full of Colombian tappers whom he could hire away for his own operations. In addition, Cayenne might send us there because both Pezil and Barrera are his business associates. As a bottom line, if Cayenne opposed our wishes, we would simply escape down the Isana to Jaguanari by ourselves. And there, I would confront and slay my enemy Barrera in the presence of Alicia and my unfortunate, debt-­bound compatriots. What a scene it would be! And when our consul stopped in Jaguanari, on his way to rescue us in Guaracú with a force of armed men, he’d find the mission already accomplished, to the jubilation of everyone. “The intrepid Arturo Cova has already liberated and avenged us!” Part Three · 151

Walking along with my mind thus occupied, I began to see my calves sinking ever deeper in the leaf litter and the trees growing precipitously taller on either side of the trail, raising their massive arms into the green canopy above. On several occasions, I seemed to notice my head becoming unbearably heavy and my steps going sideways instead of forward. My face twisted over my left shoulder, and I had the impression of a voice telling me: “What’s the problem? You’re fine. Why walk the way others do?” Still, my brain seemed about to boil. My companions must have been close, and yet I could not hear or see them. I panicked, afraid to be left alone, and began to run in random directions, howling with terror. The dogs ran after me, barking . . . and that’s all I remember. When I came to, my friends were extricating me from a tangle of hanging vines. “For God’s sake, man, what’s going on? It’s us! Don’t you recognize us?” “What have I done? Why were you chasing me? Why am I restrained?” “Don Clemente,” said my friend Franco. “Arturo is sick. Let’s turn around and go back.” “No, I’m all right now. I feel better. I was trying to lay my hands on that white squirrel. The horrible expressions on your faces frightened me. That’s all.” My friends appeared unaccountably pale and agitated. So that they would not question my fitness, no sooner had they freed me from the vines, than I led the way again. Clemente Silva observed me and smiled. “Compatriot, the jungle has bewitched you. I’ve seen it a thousand times.” “Why do you say that?” “It’s the way you look constantly around you. Don’t be afraid. These trees are having fun with you, but they’re not really a threat.” “I still don’t get it.” “Science cannot explain what happens to men’s minds when they wander in the jungle, but I believe I know. A tree that grows by itself on a plain, in a park, or beside a road will be benevolent toward us, as long as people don’t cut it, torment it, and bleed its sap. But growing together in the jungle, trees become perverse and aggressive toward people. In the dim silence of the forest floor, trees have a way of poisoning our minds. Something startles us, makes us tense, oppresses our spirit, and the dizzy disorientation of the deep woods sweeps over us. Consequently, we run in random directions and lose our bearings. How many have gone for rubber and never returned for that reason?” Perhaps Don Clemente was right. I have felt the jungle’s baleful psychological influences more than once, especially in Jaguanari. 152 · The Vortex

Eventually, the total horror of the jungle was unveiled before my eyes. I witnessed in sharp detail its lurid, slow-­moving panorama of life-­ entwined-­with-­death—the great trees shrouded and deformed and imprisoned by voracious webs of climbing vines that leap from surrounding palms and then clamber inexorably upward, like fishing nets carelessly hung to dry. Like a crawling octopus, the matapalo, or “tree-­killer” vine, attaches its tentacles to the great vertical trunks, twisting and penetrating the bark, grafting itself into the living flesh of its host, injecting its dominance and purpose in a painful transmigration of spirits. The spreading drapery of vines accumulates a detritus of years—a compost of rotting leaves, sticks, and fruit—that occasionally showers to the ground in the form of dirt and fungus, mixed with salamanders, blind reptiles, and spiders. Trillions of devastating bachaquero ants ascend the forest canopy to trim it and then march back to their underground colonies along miniature highways kept clear down to the dirt, carrying their trimmings of leaf and flower like tiny banners of destruction. Termites sicken and kill the trees like some kind of galloping syphilis that conceals its deadly progress. The termites invade and destroy a trunk until the weight of its spreading, leafy branches suddenly shatters the healthy wood that remains, and down comes an enormous portion of green sky. And yet, each death renovates the earth. The decay of the fallen giant and light from the newly opened canopy combine to encourage germination and sprouting. Pollen swirls in the miasmas of decomposing organic matter. The smell of ferment is the breath of both purification and procreation. Here one encounters no enraptured nightingales, no poetic flowers or butterflies, no babbling brooks or sentimental panoramas. This garden cannot be compared to the geometric landscaping of Versailles. How poor is the imagination of poets who know only the domesticated version of nature! Here, croaking toads in murky, foul-­smelling backwaters. Here, poisonous epiphytes whose aphrodisiac attractions create a pile of dead bees on the ground beneath them. Here, a diversity of repugnant flowers that palpitate like sexual organs and exude an odious fragrance that intoxicates like a drug. Here, the malignant plants that enflame the skin and bring blindness and induce vomiting. Here the curujú seed of iridescent beauty and a flavor like caustic ash. Part Three · 153

Here, in the night: unknown voices, phantasmagoric lights, funereal silences. Hear the thump of fallen fruit that bursts open to fulfill the promise of its seed; the whisper of tumbling leaves that offer themselves as fertilizer to the roots of the tree that bore them; the sound of jaws that eat hurriedly to avoid being eaten; the call of danger and alert; the noisy agony of prey that did not escape; the echoing belch of the satiated predator. And when dawn finally sprinkles the leaves with its tragic glory, the clamor of the survivors, the keening of the birds, the chatter of the monkeys, the thrashing of the wild pig—all for the brief jubilation of a few more hours to live. Little is known about what plants feel, and yet the jungle, both virgin and sadist, communicates to men a presentiment of immediate, constant threat. That presentiment frays our nerves, predisposes us to fear ambush, treachery, attack—at any hour, from any quarter. Our senses become confused, so that our eyes hear and our ears see. And our blood cries out. Run away, run away! Even in the jungle, however, “civilized” man is the most destructive protagonist of all. There is a certain piratical magnificence in the struggle of a few renegade businessmen to exploit the Indians and bend the jungle to their will. Having failed to make their fortunes in the cities, they plunge into the wilderness seeking some kind, any kind, of denouement to their life stories. Delirious with malaria, they put aside whatever conscience they might have brought with them and, armed with only Winchesters and machetes, oriented toward only pleasure and abundance, confront physical privations so severe that their clothing rots away to nothing on their emaciated bodies. At long last, on whatever river bluff they are able to claim for themselves unchallenged, they build a rickety installation indistinguishable from any other hut and call themselves rubber traders. Their common enemy is the jungle, but their attacks—also their poaching and constant struggles for dominance—are directed preferentially at each other. And the impact of their activities can be compared, in the amplitude of their destructiveness, to the very worst of natural disasters. The rubber trade destroys millions of trees every year in Colombia alone. In Venezuela, the variety of tree that produces its famous balatá rubber has been overexploited to the point of extinction. The progress offered by our Amazonian rubber barons is thus a fraud that enriches them at the expense of future generations. Take Cayenne, who began his career as a rubber baron by escaping from Devil’s Island. He knew that the guards regularly fed sharks in the waters around the prison walls and yet threw himself into the sea, still in shackles. 154 · The Vortex

Somehow he survived, and soon he was here, on the Papunagua, stealing rubber caches, then bossing a motley crew of renegades and Indians, finally monopolizing the trade in his zone. Now he lived with his women, employees, and ­hangers-­on at a big installation on the Guaracú, the distant lights of which, filtered through the trees, palpitated on our retinas when we approached, as we had planned to do, just at dusk. Who could have imagined, at that moment, that our own trajectories would lead in a similar direction?

The trek to Guaracú had been a humbling revelation for me. My apparent robustness and fortitude were only apparent. Ravaged by fevers, my musculature tired easily. My companions, on the other hand, appeared immune to fatigue, and even old Clemente Silva, despite his years and impediments, proved more vigorous than I during the marches. My companions had to stop repeatedly to let me catch up, and even though they lightened my load, carrying my knapsack and my carbine for me, it was all I could do not to sit down on the ground and confess my weakness. Only my pride saved me from doing so. Barefoot, bare-­legged, and grumbling, I was wading through deep mud and standing water, under the many levels of canopy through which precious shards of light filter to the ground. The roots of the trees that block the sun have forgotten its existence. Fidel’s hand helped me cross bridges of fallen logs, as the dogs howled to be let loose in that hunter’s paradise. But I had no enthusiasm for the chase. My inferior situation made me mistrustful, irritable, petulant. Our leader in that situation was obviously old man Silva, against whom I began to conceive a secret rivalry. I began to suspect that he had chosen this route to show me that I lacked the physical capacity to confront Cayenne. The old man never missed an opportunity to underline the impracticality of escape, so often dreamt of, so often planned, so rarely attempted—because all tappers know in their heart of hearts that death blocks every exit from the jungle. The old man’s line of talk had a definite effect on my companions, all of whom became my councillors and advisers. I refused to listen, replying simply: “Although we walk together, I know that I stand alone. Perchance you are tired? In that case, rest. I will lead the way, and you can follow at your own speed.” Part Three · 155

Without comment, they continued down the path, and every time they stopped to wait for me, they spoke to one another in low voices and looked at me out of the corners of their eyes. Their behavior made me indignant. It was intolerable, and I felt a sudden hatred toward them. They must be making fun of me, or perhaps they had led us in a different direction, and we weren’t on the trail to Guaracú after all! “Listen to me, old man Silva,” I shouted, pulling at him from behind. “If you don’t take me to the Isana, I’ll shoot you!” The old man knew that I wasn’t joking, and he didn’t seem surprised by my attitude. He understood that the wilderness had possessed my mind. Shoot a man? Why not? What could be more natural? Didn’t I have the habit of defending myself ? Wasn’t this the way to maintain my personal independence? What speedier method of resolving daily conflicts? Oh Jungle, behold the fate of all who lose themselves in your vortex!

Crouching in the weeds, for fear of being discovered, we clutched our carbines to our chests and peered at the lights of the installation on the Guaracú. Tonight we’d have to camp without a fire. A current sobbed past in the darkness, a current we had not yet met, the Isana. “Don Clemente,” I said, embracing him, “you’re the greatest of all pathfinders.” “Even so, I get scared, remembering the time when I got lost for two months in the rubber zone of Jaguanari.” “We remember the story. It was when you took off for the Vaupés.” “Seven of us.” “And the others tried to kill you.” “They thought I was only pretending to be lost.” “And sometimes they roughed you up.” “And other times they begged on their knees for me to save them.” “And they kept you tied up an entire night.” “For fear that I would run off and leave them.” “And the seven finally split up.” “But only I lived to tell the tale.” That geezer Clemente Silva thinks he has a monopoly on suffering. From the day that, boarding the motor launch from Iquitos to Manaus, he learned of his son’s death, his project has been, essentially, to prolong his slavery and spend a few more years tapping rubber until he can recover all Luciano’s 156 · The Vortex

remains. Even had the madonna forgiven his debt, as she promised to do, he had no way to live except by tapping rubber. He had to join some crew, accept some master, and most would send him far, far away from the Vaupés. In Manaus he went to all the agencies that hire foreigners and returned disappointed. They were recruiting only for rubber zones in Brazil and Peru. They would send him to the Madeira, to the Purús, of the Ucayali—but not the Vaupés, where, beside the great rapids that interrupt its course, stood four stones marking the vine-­covered tomb of Luciano Silva. Zoraida’s friend Miguel Pezil could send him, if not to the Vaupés, to the upper Río Negro, which was at least the right direction. But Pezil feigned a lack of interest and only accepted the old man’s pleas when Zoraida agreed to buy Silva back if Pezil weren’t satisfied with his work. Pezil took him to his beautiful residence in Naranjal, near Jaguanari, and occupied him for a time there doing trivial tasks under the watchful eye of a taciturn and scornful overseer. Then one day, don Clemente heard two scullery maids quarrel so loudly in the kitchen that they awoke their master, who was napping. Old Silva was outside on the porch, studying the large map that was pasted to the outside wall. His irate master found him there and screamed that he should strip the women to the waist and flog them. Silva disobeyed the order, and that same afternoon they packed him off to tap rubber in Jaguanari. One of the poor women was Zoraida’s former chambermaid, the one who had met Luciano when he and the madonna were sleeping together on the Vaupés. She hadn’t seen him die, but she knew the place, and she had given don Clemente exact indications of how to find it. Silva’s refusal did not save her from being flogged because the ferocious Turk did it himself, with a whip in each hand, covering the poor woman’s flesh with blood and contusions. Whimpering in the pantry, she scrawled a note for her boyfriend, who worked in the Jaguanari zone, and she gave it to don Clemente, begging him to deliver it and to describe in detail the abuse that she had suffered. Manuel Cardoso was her friend’s name, an overseer at an installation run by their mutual employer on the Yurubaixí. Told what had happened to his woman, he proposed to kill Pezil at the first opportunity and, in the meantime, to attack the Turk’s interests by inciting the tappers under his supervision to take off with their accumulated stores of rubber. At first, Compass appeared to reject that idea, but in the coming days, as they tended the smoky fire and basted swelling balls of gradually solidifying rubber, the fruit of many week’s collection, he floated the proposal to the other members of the crew. The answer was always the same. Part Three · 157

“No pathfinder can get us out of here with all this rubber.” They began to debate the stimulating but plainly impossible hypothesis, just to relieve the boredom of night in the jungle. “We obviously couldn’t escape down the Río Negro because the Turk’s motor launches would grab us for sure.” “Remember that it’s two miles wide.” “Well, yes, but it’s better to ascend the Cababurí, then down the Maturacá right to the Casquiare!” “Or, go up our little Yurubaixí right here, and keep going about sixty days by canoe, and they say that there’s a connection with the Caquetá.” “And there’s no feasible overland trek straight to the Vaupés?” “What the hell kind of idea is that?” The installation was located on a bluff that stood above the seasonal floodwaters, the only spot of permanently dry land in the area. Rubber trees had to be tapped, in flood season, from scaffolding set up around the base of the trees, above the surging water. The company motor launch from Naranjal visited monthly to bring provisions and pick up cured rubber. The tappers were few, and their numbers tended to decline because of beriberi and because feverish tappers frequently threw themselves, or fell, from the scaffolding and drowned Many tappers at Yurubaixí rarely strayed from their flimsy huts erected above the water near the circuits of trees that they bled regularly for latex. There they cured the sap to make solid rubber and eventually pushed the large, heavy, solidified balls into the water and floated them to the installation. Rarely did they go far from the riverbanks, so they lacked a sense of orientation in the jungle, a circumstance that contributed greatly to the prestige of don Clemente. The pathfinder would occasionally stick a machete in the ground at any random site in the jungle and leave it there. Then, days later, he would invite a tapper to accompany him to get the machete, and together they would walk directly to it, without a single misstep. Thus did his legend grow. One morning, just as the sun was making itself felt, an unexpected catastrophe occurred. The men who were lazing around the installation heard frantic cries and gathered on a promontory with a view of the river. In the middle of the current, bobbing along like enormous ducks, came a small flock of dark, floating spheres of cured rubber. Behind them, herding them along in a tiny canoe, came the tapper who had collected and cured them. Occasionally he used the tip of his paddle to encourage a straggler that had lingered, revolving slowly, in an eddy, or had lodged against a submerged 158 · The Vortex

snag. As he reached the pier and struggled to steer his flock of swimming balls to shore, he raised the cry that, possibly more than any other, strikes terror in the heart of an inhabitant of the rubber zones. “Tambochas! Tambochas! The tappers are surrounded!” The approach of tambochas meant that all workers must drop their tools, leave their huts, lay down fire lines, and seek refuge. Vomited from hell or who knows where, the poisonous, carnivorous ants called tambochas migrate in numberless armies through the jungle. Their hordes advance in fronts many miles across, generating the rough, crackling sound of a forest fire, sweeping before them everything that can escape, devouring utterly anything that cannot. The size of wasps without wings, with bright red heads and ­greenish-­yellow bodies, their venom, as well as their multitude, is to be feared. Nothing in their path escapes them. No limb is too high, no hole too deep, no crevice too narrow for them to explore. They cover the trees up to the forest canopy and filter through the leaf litter on the forest floor like an advancing wave, devouring chicks in the nest, rodents and reptiles in their burrows, putting entire communities to flight, man and beast. The news created a general consternation. The workers at the company installation packed their things in a panic. “Which way are they coming?” asked Manuel Cardoso. “They seem to be coming down both sides of the river! There are some animals swimming across from this side, but the bees are going crazy over there.” “And who’s surrounded?” “The five tappers at El Silencio. They don’t even have a canoe!” “They’ve got to save themselves. We can’t get them any help now. Who’s going to risk getting lost on the back way to El Silencio?” “I will,” said old Clemente Silva. And a young Brazilian named Lauro Coutinho spoke up as well: “I’ll go, too. My brother is there.”

Grabbing matches, firearms, and whatever provisions were at hand, the two friends took a trail leading away from the river, into the depths of the jungle, the most direct route to El Silencio. They moved down the muddy path at a rapid pace, keeping their eyes peeled and their ears cocked. But when they reached a fork in the path, Coutinho stopped the old man. “The moment has arrived for us to take off !” Part Three · 159

Don Clemente had already made the same decision, but he feigned otherwise. “We would need to talk to the other tappers.” “They’ll agree in a heartbeat.” And that is what happened. Returning to the installation they had left the previous day, they found the other tappers circulating a gourd of palm wine and playing dice on a handkerchief spread over the sand. “Who cares about the tambochas! Sure! Let’s get out of here! With a pathfinder like you, we’ve got it made!” So off they go, down a different path, their hearts buoyed by visions of escape and liberation, marveling at the abilities of the old man, promising him their eternal gratitude and friendship. Lauro Coutinho is waving a palm frond overhead as a banner. Souza Machado is explaining that he insists on carrying his e­ ighteen-­kilo ball of cured latex in order to afford the services of a really expensive prostitute, who must be blonde and pale-­ complected and smell like brandy and roses. The Italian guy, Peggi, will be happy if he can get employment as a cook at any hotel where the tips are decent and the leftovers abundant. Coutinho, the oldest, wants to marry a girl with property. Venancio, “the Indian,” reckons that he can get a good living making canoes. Pedro Fajardo means to buy a house for his blind old mother. Don Clemente dreams of locating a grave. Behold a procession of life’s unfortunates, whose route begins at the last resort and ends, inevitably, with death. And what was that route? A seldom traveled one, down the Curí-­curiarí River. It would lead them to the Río Negro far, far above Naranjal, and from there they’d go to Umarituba and ask for help. The much-­maligned Castanheira Fontes was actually very kind and would receive them generously. At that point, they would have more options. And, in any case, they had a good excuse in case they were captured. The tambochas had driven them out of their zone. Let anyone ask the overseer. Four days into the jungle, their mood had altered and the crisis began. They ran out of provisions, and the mud and standing water were interminable. When they stopped to rest, they tore their shirts into strips for improvised leggings in a vain attempt to keep the leeches off. Exhaustion made Souza Machado generous. He could no longer carry his ­eighteen-­kilo ball of latex, so he cut pieces to distribute among his companions. Fajardo pronounced himself too tired to carry anything more, and returned his portion. It’s black gold, after all! Won’t do to waste it. Someone finally committed the indiscretion: 160 · The Vortex

“Which way do we go now?” The others answered with one voice: “Onward! Onward!” But the pathfinder had become disoriented. He walked on blindly, without stopping or letting his doubts be known, in order not to frighten the men. Three times in one hour, he had found himself back at the same swamp, without his comrades noticing. He focused his mind’s eye on the map that he had studied back at Naranjal, so long and so carefully as to practically have it memorized. He envisioned the sinuous blue lines that traced the watercourses like a network of veins. He visualized their unforgettable names (Teiya, Marié, Curí-­curiarí) and the pallid green spaces that separated them. But a map is one thing, and the reality it represents, something else again. On the map this was an area that he could cover with his two hands, neatly located between parallel meridians. The route could be traced precisely with his finger. On the ground, however, it was a swirling infinity of unrecognizable, impassable swamp, hills, and jungle. How had a pathfinder of his experience forgotten that? He began to pray silently. If only God would let him see the sun! But there was no way. The forest floor was drenched in a chilly twilight. A bluish vapor rose from the dripping foliage. Onward! God helps those who help themselves. One of the tappers stopped suddenly and declared that he heard someone whistling. The men all stopped in their tracks, but it was just a buzzing in their ears. Everybody had it. Souza Machado swore that the trees were gesturing to him. From there on, he walked in the middle of the group. A presentiment of catastrophe was making them nervous. The slightest provocation might set off a panic, a fury, a fit of madness. They all understood and resisted what was happening. Onward! Lauro Coutinho simulated carefree hilarity, ribbing Souza Machado for finally discarding all remnants of his weighty ball of rubber. Everyone had to laugh. I’m not sure who then began to pepper don Clemente with questions. “Shut up!” snarled the Italian. “You can’t talk to pathfinders while they’re working. Everybody knows that!” But old man Silva, halting and raising his hands as if surrendering, turned to his friends and blurted out the truth. “We’re lost!” Instantly, the entire group lifted its eyes to the canopy and howled a chorus of pleas and blasphemies. “God save us! We’re lost!” Part Three · 161

We’re lost. Those two common, simple words, when pronounced in the jungle, produce a terror greater than the cry of “Every man for himself ” on a battlefield. In the hearer’s mind, the jungle opens its fearsome maw to swallow those defeated by hunger and disillusionment. Neither the pathfinder’s oaths, warnings, and tears nor his reiterated promises to find a new route—nothing placated the lost crew. They wrung their hands, tore at their hair, bit their lips, and blathered accusations. “It’s all the old bastard’s fault! He got off the route because he only thinks of getting back to the Vaupés.” “Evil, hateful old man! Did you think we wouldn’t catch on to your tricks?” “You’re in league with the devil! God save us from you!” Seeing that they might kill him without remorse, old Silva ran into the forest, where he was soon entangled in a hanging vine and fell to the ground. The others tied him up, and Peggi said they should tear him apart. Fortunately for Clemente Silva, he found the one argument that could save him: “If you kill me, you’re dead for sure. I’m your only hope!” The aggressors froze. They knew it was true. “We’ve got to keep him alive.” “But we’ve got to keep him tied up, or he’ll run away.” Even though they didn’t untie him, they knelt around him, sobbing, to implore his aid. “Don’t abandon us, for God’s sake!” “We’ll starve to death.” “Take us back to the Yurubaixí!” Gradually, don Clemente was able to make them see reason. Getting lost was a well-­known hazard of life in the jungle, no reason to panic. As he had often explained, they must absolutely not think about being lost or surrender to fear, which is the jungle’s greatest weapon. They must not look at the trees, because the trees would begin to beckon. They must not listen to the murmur of the leaves, because the leaves would begin to speak. And they must keep their own voices silent, because the foliage would imitate the sound, mock them, and spread confusion. Far from following these instructions, however, the men glanced around them, scoffed at the forest, and, by a process of invisible contagion, became totally bewitched. Even old Silva, who was walking in front of the rest, was affected. The foliage began to undulate and the trees to sway before his eyes. 162 · The Vortex

Low limbs seemed to dodge his machete when he tried to clear the trail, and more than once they tried to wrest it from his grip. Whose fault was it, if not their own? Shouting and firing their guns accomplished nothing. Quite to the contrary. Noise would attract jaguars, not rescuers. Just wait and see after nightfall! That frightened them and shut them up, not that they could have continued for long, anyway. They had shouted themselves hoarse, and their guttural attempts at speech sounded more like geese than human beings. They needed to start the fire long before sunset, because dusk comes prematurely in the jungle. They cut leafy branches, spread them on the muddy ground, and kneeling around old Silva, hunkered down to await the torment of darkness. Oh, the torture of such a night: hungry, fighting to stay awake because of the threat of wild beasts, suffering constant hallucinations, knowing that tomorrow they’d be even more exhausted and yawning! Lost! They were lost! They felt the anguish of knowing they were watched by creatures out there in the dark. Unrecognizable, hurried sounds were interspersed with silences that felt like hollows in eternity. Don Clemente racked his brains for an idea. Only a good look at the sky could restore his sense of orientation. If he only knew in which direction the sun rose! That would be enough. But not even that was obvious in the perpetual twilight of the forest floor. To see the sun was the key. The gigantic trees whose tops emerged from the forest canopy hundreds of feet above could easily tell him. They watched the sun rise and set each day. But the trees would do nothing to commute his death sentence. It was practically impossible to climb their gargantuan trunks to the limbs above, where vertigo awaited. The best climber was Lauro Coutinho, who seemed to be asleep with this arms around the old man’s legs. Perhaps he could do it. Don Clemente was about to speak but stopped himself upon hearing small sounds, faint but sharp, like a mouse crossing a hardwood floor. His companions were gnawing seeds! The pathfinder felt a sudden compassion for the other men, and he decided to grant them the relief of a white lie. “That’s it!” “What’s it?” they whispered, holding their faces close to his in the darkness and checking, with their hands, to make sure that the knots they had tied were still firmly in place. “I’ve thought of something. We’re saved.” “Saved?” Idiotic with relief, they said the word over and over. Part Three · 163

“Saved! We’re saved!” And prostrate on the ground, they dug their knees into the leaves and mud, contritely sobbing and croaking their boundless gratitude without asking about the exact content of their salvation. It was enough for another man to promise it. They blessed him as their savior, embraced him with contrition, swore that they would make it up to him. Some claimed merit in making the miracle happen by supplication. “It was my prayers to the Virgin!” “It was my saint’s medal!” “It was the pilgrimage that I promised to make!” Meanwhile, out there in the darkness, Death was certainly smirking.

Dawn came. The anxiety that had sustained them in the night was now visible on their faces, perfect masks of tragedy. They had forgotten how to smile, and if they tried, the result was strained, spasmodic, and demented in appearance. With their red-­lined eyes, tremulous pulses, and emaciated, feverish bodies, they waited for the sun to indicate its return. They searched for the smallest piece of sky, the most inconsequential opening in the lofty canopy of green, but nothing. Gradually, it began to drizzle. No one said anything, but their looks spoke volumes. They doubled back the way they had come the day before, along the edge of a forest pool, where their footprints soon filled with water and vanished. The pathfinder proceeded intently, enjoying the most absolute quiet and deference from the other men, until about nine o’clock in the morning, when something odd happened. Hundreds of rabbits and other rodents suddenly filled the underbrush, all rushing in the same direction. Stupefied by terror, some tried to hide between the men’s feet, so that the men tripped and swore and kicked at them. Then everyone at once detected a low, indistinct murmur—soft, but seemingly on the increase, coming from no particular direction, but rather, from the entire immensity of the jungle. “God almighty! The tambochas!” Their only thought then was escape. Anything was preferable to the onslaught of the army ants, so they waded into the stinking, ­leech-­filled water up to their chins. From there, they watched the first battalions march past. Like large pieces of ash that flutter down from the sky in the vicinity of a major conflagration, clumsy winged beetles and cockroaches sifted onto the 164 · The Vortex

water’s surface, while spiders and reptiles gathered at the water’s edge. Some began to swim, obliging the men to splash repeated waves of the murky, pestilent liquid at them to keep them away. The leaf litter on the forest floor trembled continuously, the leaves seeming to boil. The tumult of the ­ground-­level invasion was invisible until masses of ants ascended the tree trunks, as if covering them with a new layer of shimmering, black bark, all the way up to the limbs above, where any creature unable to escape would be devoured to the skeleton, after screeching briefly, as though immersed in a bath of sulfuric acid. How long did they stay in the water, watching the battalions of tambochas pass, one after another? Many hours they endured this horror until finally, when the last battalion seemed to have gone away, they were unable to extricate themselves, so cramped and weak had their limbs become, so firmly and deeply embedded in the mud, their legs. They couldn’t very well let themselves die like that, though. “The Indian” Venancio managed to reach a strong vine and begin to pull himself out of the mud, ignoring the couple of stray tambochas that gnawed his hands bloody. Little by little, he widened the holes in the gripping sludge until one leg came out of the muck with a sucking gurgle. “That’s it! Almost there!” The other leg followed, and he was free. Fetid bubbles came to the surface above the submerged holes that he had left in the swamp bottom. Floating face up, he listened immobile to his companions’ frenzied calls for help. “Let me rest.” An hour later, with the aid of a long stick, he’d gotten them all out. That was the last time that the crew suffered and triumphed together. Which way should they go now? They could not think, had no strength. Pedro Fajardo began to cough convulsively, then to spit up copious blood, and, within minutes, he dropped dead of a massive hemoptysis before their startled eyes. They had no time to worry about the body. The elder Coutinho brother counseled haste: “Take his knife, and let’s go. Why’d he come, anyway, if he was sick?” And he told his younger brother to climb a tall but slender copaiba from which he might glimpse the sun. His brother shed his shirt and tore it into strips. These he tied around his ankles, a device to help him shinny up the trunk. But the trunk was too slick or the bark was too loose, and he slid back down almost immediately. The others boosted him onto their shoulders to give him a higher start. Another titanic effort. He climbed three feet and slid down two, in a shower of loose bark. The others found long sticks to Part Three · 165

support him from below, pushing him up, stretching themselves to maximum height, on tiptoes, half crazed with their desire to see him reach the first branch. And then, somehow, he did reach it, bleeding from abrasions on his stomach, arms, chest, and knees. “Can you see anything?” He shook his head, no. At that point, they’d forgotten whatever they’d learned about being quiet in order not to provoke the jungle. They reacted with mindless fury, shouting and shaking their fists at Lauro Coutinho. “Can’t you see anything? Climb higher!” Lauro sat on the first branch, shaking visibly, clutching the trunk, panting, not responding. That high up, he looked like a wounded monkey trying to conceal himself from hunters below. “Climb higher! Climb higher!” Instead, Lauro began to climb down. A snarl of hatred arose from below, as the boy protested in a shrill voice: “More tambochas! More tambo—” The last syllable was strangled in this throat, because the other Coutinho, with the marksmanship that distinguished him on that crew, had impulsively raised his carbine and shot his brother off the copaiba trunk with an unerring bullet. Lauro plummeted to the ground, dead. The fratricidal shooter looked at the corpse stupidly, trying to understand what had happened. “I killed my brother,” he said finally. “I killed my brother.” Then he dropped his carbine and ran, paying no heed where. Everyone else ran, too. Don Clemente never saw any of them again, but a few nights later he did hear screaming. He didn’t approach for fear that they might kill him. Anyway, he’d mostly lost his compassion, because the jungle was having its way with him, too. Still, he felt a little guilty, and finally he did go look for them. But he found only skulls and a few femurs. Without fire or a gun, he wandered in the jungle for a month, out of his mind, eating stems, rinds, seeds, mushrooms, like a wild beast, the difference being that he had to observe the beasts first, to find out what was edible. He remained alive only because Death didn’t want him. Nevertheless, one morning he had an epiphany. He noticed a canaguche palm and recalled the lore whereby its crest always leans toward the sun as it moves across the sky in the manner of a sunflower, even when the sun is invisible. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He sat on his heels, totally still, and watched the palm for a long time until he thought he saw, yes he did see, its crest change position slightly, like a head that takes all day to lift 166 · The Vortex

itself from one shoulder and incline to the other. Was it showing him the direction of sunset? Whether or not it was, he believed it, and that’s how he found himself in the basin of the Tiquié. The water had no detectable current, and he tried to identify the right direction by throwing leaves into the water and studying their movement for hours. That’s what he was doing when the Albuquerques found him, and their crew rescued him. “What kind of scarecrow did you find?” asked the other tappers. “Some runaway that only mutters a few names: Coutinho, Peggi, Souza Machado . . .” The old man grabbed one of their canoes and took off before the end of the year, heading for the Vaupés. And here he sits now, keeping me company, as we watch and wait for dawn to break over the Guaracú so that I can go present myself at the famous installation belonging to the Corsican renegade, Cayenne. What is he thinking about? Perhaps about Jaguanari, or Yavaraté and his lost companions. Don’t you go to Jaguanari, he always says to me. And, thinking of Alicia and my nemesis, I always answer: “Oh, yes I will!”

Dawn broke with a dispute in which, fortunately, I did not lose my temper. It concerned the manner in which we ought to approach our prospective hosts. Undoubtedly, the unexpected appearance of four unknown men would provoke serious alarm. Obviously, one of us ought to go in alone to test the waters, while the others continued to wait in hiding. We agreed, moreover, that I was the most likely candidate for this risky mission. But my companions absolutely refused to let me go armed. Hence the dispute. Their precaution offended my sense of cool and self-­control, and yet I tacitly accepted. At times, I seem to make the right decision unconsciously, so that my actions precede the corresponding cerebral directive, rather than responding to it. Ultimately, I saw that it was useful to curb my virile impulses, which have been known to be aggressive. An armed man is only a hair’s breadth from tragedy at any moment, after all. Handing over my revolver, I repeated my instructions about where we should meet in case something went wrong. It was broad daylight when I stepped out of the bushes and walked alone toward the installation, wondering in which house the overseer slept. As I Part Three · 167

walked, a bit unsteadily, my plans became vivid and clear in my mind. Why not do as Helí Mesa had suggested? First, take this installation by force, grab don Clemente’s “treasure” and whatever provisions we can find, then take off ­cross-­country with the pathfinder, looking for the headwaters of the Guainía and its tributary, the Isana. Wouldn’t it be better to go in shooting? Why show up like a bunch of beggars? I hesitated and looked back at my friends, whose heads were still visible to me in the bushes. They looked at me as if awaiting instructions. What I wanted to shout was more like: Fools, why didn’t you hold the dogs? Dollar and Charlemagne had come following me at a run, and a moment later, they were already charging noisily among the huts, startling the occupants and alerting them irremediably to my presence. There was no turning back now. I walked onward, in growing disbelief at what I was seeing. This dump was Cayenne’s famous installation on the Guaracú? This collection of rude storage structures and indigenous huts, overgrown with weeds and vines, was the headquarters of a regional satrap, lord of rivers and mountains, of innumerable slaves and concubines? True, no one builds much in the rubber zones, and Cayenne had moved his headquarters several times over the years, until it stood at its current location on the isthmus of Papunagua, controlling the Inírida to the detriment of his great rival, Funes. Still, I was amazed to see the squalor of this major ­rubber-­collecting center. Its listless residents had permitted one of the t­ hatch-­roofed storage structures to become covered by an erratically spreading vine with velvety leaves and small yellow gourds. Men and women, the latter with wounds stinking of iodine and dingy rags tied around their heads, sprawled in grimy hammocks near fires kept permanently smoldering as a defense against mosquitoes. The ground was littered with trash: fish bones, armadillo shells, rusty tin cans. Nobody lifted a head to watch me pass. I had the impression that, as in a fairy tale, I had stepped out of the enchanted wood and found myself in the abode of Desolation. My dogs were what finally dissipated the miasma of apathy. Entering one of the open structures, they jumped at a tethered monkey that took refuge, screeching, on a swinging leather perch. Men with bandages and evident signs of illness came to investigate, as did the woman whose monkey was screeching. Pregnant women and naked children seemed to be everywhere. “Are you carrying any manioc?” “Yes. Where’s your boss?” “Over there. Tell him to buy your manioc. We’re hungry!” 168 · The Vortex

The woman swallowed, having begun to salivate prematurely. The main house was a primitive affair. It had no internal walls, the rooms being separated by partitions of woven palm frond. Grills of cane replaced actual doors. I wasn’t sure exactly how to approach it. Possessed by a sudden intuition, I peered over the ­waist-­high outer wall, and there, smoking in her hammock and looking at the ceiling, was a woman wearing a lacy white dress, no doubt the madonna, Zoraida Ayram. She looked over and caught me spying on her. “Váquiro! Váquiro! There’s a man here!” I didn’t know what to say, so I continued to approach with feigned confidence. In her hand the madonna held a pistol as small as a toy. According to the plan, my companions would be closely observing my movements at this point. If I took off my hat before entering, it was a sign that the overseer was present. And present he indubitably was. It took longer for me to wonder about him than for him to appear in the door with a menacing expression, hurriedly loading bullets into his Winchester. “What do you want?” “My good sir, I’m Arturo Cova, and I come in peace.” “He’s nobody. Take him to the kitchen,” pronounced the madonna with theatrical disdain, as she slipped the pistol back into her ample cleavage. Váquiro ignored her and stuck out his square, calloused hand. “Achilles Vácares, of Venezuela, at your service. They call me Váquiro. I’ve led brave fighters in a skirmish or two. I fear no man, and the bullet hasn’t been made that can kill me.” So I took off my hat and murmured reverently: “Be in good health, General, sir.”

Outside, under the covered walkway along the house’s side, Váquiro climbed into a hammock, relaxed with his gun across his lap, and pointed to a bench for me. Unsure how to proceed, I stalled for time. “Is it proper for me to sit in the presence of a general? Military discipline and decorum forbid it.” “You’ve got a point.” Váquiro was a whiny, c­ ross-­eyed drunk. When he spoke, his ill-­fitting dentures shifted unintelligibly behind his long, scruffy mustache. An old, but still angry, scar crossed his dark mestizo cheek from earlobe to nose, the mark of some well-­aimed machete in years past, still demanding jusPart Three · 169

tice. From the neck of his stained undershirt sprouted a repressed forest of angular hairs among which filtered a sweaty vapor of truly unforgettable scent. His wide belt of cured leather functioned as an arsenal, complete with machete, dagger, revolver, and cartridges. He complemented his khaki trousers with sandals that slapped his heels when he walked, like flip-­flops. “How did you know that I’m a general?” “Such a distinguished officer as yourself, I thought, must surely have scaled the hierarchy.” “Did what?” “Scaled the hierarchy.” “So . . . you’d heard of me in Colombia?” “Who hasn’t heard of the great warrior Achilles?” “Ah!” At that point, my friends appeared, panting and unarmed, in a little group at the end of the walkway. Váquiro rose and declined to sit back down as I presented my companions to him. “General, sir. These are my comrades.” The three of them ad-­libbed somewhat uncertainly: “Yes, sir. General, sir.” The moment called for a forceful discursive intervention—the more eloquent, the better—to calm Váquiro down. Adopting a tone of irresistible conviction, and laughing internally at my exterior seriousness, I invented a fictional backstory so compelling and plausible that it amazed even me. We dealt in rubber on the Vaupés, I explained, about halfway between Calamar and the ­Itilla-­Unilla confluence, and also dealt in manioc and a few other products of the zone. Our buyer was none other than the famous Casa Rosas, with whom we dealt directly in Manaus, and with whom I had amassed a commercial credit of not less than one thousand pounds sterling. When I said that, I noticed that the creak of the swaying hammock inside stopped abruptly. The madonna was evidently listening to my story. The realization flustered me, and I altered the course of my fantasies. “But the Vaupés hasn’t been so easy, General. The rapids have been brutal, and an upset near the Yavaraté cost us everything that we had collected during the last three years, all lost!” On purpose, I emphasized the location. “Right by the Yavaraté rapids, against the roots of an enormous jacaranda tree!” The madonna appeared in the doorway, filling it with a cascade of white lace. Movements of her soft, satiny arms were accompanied by the tinkle of 170 · The Vortex

bracelets, and on her bejeweled hand was a tattoo of two hearts joined by a dagger. I silently absolved poor, inexperienced Luciano Silva for succumbing to her temptations. Her pale flesh was ample, bulging at the hips and, especially, the breasts—across which luxurious cushions a string of blue beads draped provocatively—but her expressions were vulgar. “Who are the boys who’ve been on the Vaupés?” she asked, as her fluttering fan circulated her perfume in my direction. “All four of us, madam.” “And which of you is affiliated with the Casa Rosas?” “It is I, or rather, your admirer, madam.” “And at what price are they buying?” “For top quality, top price. A thousand milréis in Brazilian currency. Around three hundred pesos.” “Didn’t I tell you, Váquiro? Nobody is going to pay more.” “Call me General Vácares, please, Zoraida. Learn from young Cova, here, who knows how to respect rank.” “I don’t care about names or titles. I care about money, that’s it. Speaking of which, where is it? Pay me what you owe me, now, in money, or you can pay me in rubber, at the rate of three hundred pesos. But if I have to transport rubber all over God’s creation, I’m going to charge, hear me? I won’t do it for free!” “Don’t be so ugly, woman.” “Ugly? If I’m ugly, you’re a cheating, lowlife rascal who hasn’t the faintest idea how to treat a lady. Get a clue from this youthful gentleman who has pronounced himself my admirer.” “Señorita! General!” The frustrated war hero stood up from his hammock and summoned me, with a dauntless gesture of command: “Let’s go someplace where we won’t be interrupted!” I bid the madonna farewell with a deep bow.

“As I was saying, the Casa Rosas prefers that in the future, to export rubber, we avoid the Vaupés in favor of the Caño Grande, as far as the Inírida, and go from there to San Fernando de Atabapo. The governor at San Fernando is an agent of the Casa Rosas, and he has a different avenue of exportation: through Venezuela, down the Orinoco, to Trinidad.” “Did you know that they shot Pulido?” Part Three · 171

“General, I confess that we live in isolation and ignorance.” “They cut him in little pieces, to rob him and take his place.” “The work of Colonel Funes, no doubt!” “Colonel Funes? He was demoted! Anyway, I spit on his rank and on his name. Be sure never again to mention him in my presence.” As a visual aid, he spit a wad of saliva and ground it into the dirt floor under his bare heels. “Of course, General. So, I refused to accept responsibility for losses occasioned by the new avenue of exportation, and the Casa Rosas finally gave in. But, sure enough, we lost the entire shipment, as I’ve explained, and we’re lucky to have survived and to have chanced upon so generous a rescuer as yourself.” “And what is it that you want?” “A canoe and two paddlers to take a letter to Manaus with news of the catastrophe, and to bring back money, whether from my bank account or the Casa Rosas, and finally, room and board for the four of us until the canoe gets back.” “Ummm . . . but we’ve got no extra canoes, and no manioc at all!” “How about one paddler, then? The mulato Correa will go with him. And we’ll pay whatever it costs. People like us don’t lack for resources.” “You have a point.” The madonna was listening to our dialogue, and she called me over. “If you need a paddler, I can sell you one.” “Don’t butt in, would you?” objected Váquiro. “Let us talk!” “Hey, that old pathfinder Silva still belongs to me,” insisted the madonna. “Pezil never paid me for him!” “If you wish, Madam . . . and the general doesn’t object . . .” “What general? This guy isn’t really in charge. Cayenne gives the orders here. He’s the big boss. Váquiro is just a poor devil who thinks he’s an administrator!” “Button your lip, woman. I’ll show who’s in charge here. Young man, you can have that canoe.” “Thank you! And as for the paddler, madam, if you’ll sell me the one you say, I’ll draft my account in Manaus.” “And what will you give me in guarantee?” “Ourselves, as hostages.” “I don’t know.” “I’m not surprised by your hesitancy. After all, our barefoot, ragged appearance doesn’t exactly suggest solvency. Yet the whole purpose of the 172 · The Vortex

proposed trip is to put our resources in your hands. Decide for yourselves who should go, if you like. The crucial thing is that, whoever goes, he go immediately. And whoever goes must return with the cash, provisions, and merchandise that I specify in my instructions to the Casa Rosas, particularly a few bottles of liquor, because one requires a bit of recreation out here in the wilderness.” “You’ve got a point.” The madonna was in a thoughtful mood. As soon as she left us alone, I leaned toward Váquiro and said urgently: “Swear you’ll do what you say, General.” “I’m an atheist, Cova. I don’t swear. The sword is my religion.” And, to seal his promise, he gripped the handle of his machete and pronounced a slogan from his glory days in Venezuelan civil wars of the past century: “God and the Federation.”

That evening, the madonna reappeared. Wrapped in a gauzy, white veil to protect her from the swirling insects, she did me the honor of walking back and forth in front of the open-­sided shelter that Váquiro had assigned to us. Franco and I yawned in silence by a smoldering fire, awaiting the return of others who had gone to fish for our supper. Franco emptied his pockets of manioc, and we munched on handfuls together as we watched Zoraida. After a moment, I looked the other way and pulled my hat down over my eyes, ashamed of what she made me feel. “Is she watching me?” “Oh, yeah. But she’s pretending not to.” “Is she still there?” “She’s petting the dogs.” “Stop looking at her. Here she comes.” “Yeah, here she comes. Get ready.” I raised my eyes to see her coming, pale in the semimoonlight. She passed right by me, waving her hand with a soft, smiling reproach: “My, aren’t we aloof ! I guess not everybody has a lot of credit at the Casa Rosas, no?” Tongue-­tied, I was watching her walk back toward her room when Franco gave my shoulders an excited shake. Part Three · 173

“Did you hear that? You hooked her with that stuff about the Casa Rosas. Now make your move, my man, and fast!” “Right, right. We’ll see if she still thinks I’m ‘nobody,’ won’t we? Nobody! Tonight, we’ll wash our clothes and dry them by the fire. Tomorrow . . .” The Turk extended her folding chair underneath the stars and lay back to inhale the fragrance of the jungle. The display had one purpose, to fascinate me. Her upturned eyes were there not to gaze at the heavens but to attract my gaze. Her feigned meditation conspired against my peace of mind. It reminded me of my city life of years past, when more than one greedy, calculating female had thus exhibited her bestial inclinations for my benefit. Observing her from the corner of my eye, I felt an adrenaline rush. It was fight or flight. She was a singular woman, an ambitious woman, a virile woman, a woman who had navigated the most remote and most dangerous rivers in the jungle, where she induced isolated crews and renegades to trade their rubber, whether stolen or collected, for trinkets and manioc. To amass the fortune of which she dreamt, to accomplish this protracted task of gradual, relentless accumulation, coin by coin, she exposed herself to all sorts of violence, most notably from robbers, but also including the treachery of her own paddlers, and she used her body, too, when necessary to assure the favorable outcome of her major business ventures. To bewitch the machos of the rubber zone, she embellished her charms with care. Evening in the jungle! When she stepped off ashore at some m ­ iddle-­of-­nowhere rubber camp or company installation, clean, s­ weet-­smelling, and dressed to kill, she did so with supreme confidence. How many nights like this had she extended her cot over the ­still-­hot sands of a great riverbank, feeling sad, tired, frustrated, and maybe a little homesick, wanting a firm shoulder to cry on, perhaps? After all day on the water—which is to say, in the pitiless sun that toasts the skin, the glare that burns the eyes—there was only the nocturnal suspicion that someone in the dark was plotting to kill her. After the torment of the biting insects, there was only the stingy meal and, at best, a stormy frenzy of lightning, wind, and rain. And how soul-­destroying to feign trust and utmost confidence in crewmen who have mutiny on their minds and larceny in their hearts! How stultifying to endure their scowls and complaining in order that, come dawn, the journey can continue to the impassible rapids, to a backwater where a lone tapper promises to sell a kilo of rubber on the sly, to the renegade camp of debtors who never pay but instead hide in the jungle when they see her boat coming and refuse to come out until after it leaves! 174 · The Vortex

And so she measured—at the monotonous rhythm of the paddlers, from one port to the next, and the next—the immense distance between poverty and splendid wealth. Seated on bundles beneath a large umbrella in the prow of her long dugout, she conducted an incessant mental review of her accounts, tallying debits and credits to confront with frustration the slow growth of her patrimony after years of effort. Bitterly, she compared herself to women of leisure and luxury, who put their virtue in play merely as a distraction, and conserve their honor even so, because riches are a virtue in themselves. She, on the other hand, had to struggle in the muck hoping to earn sufficient money to return, in her old age, to the homeland that had denied her everything except for nostalgia. Perhaps she had an old mother to support, brothers and sisters to consider, sacred debts to repay. Perhaps that is why she worked so hard to beautify her countenance, bedeck her body, and refine her overall pitch. Her glamour was essentially commercial in motivation. It lent prestige to her merchandise and stimulated repeat customers. Such was my generous assessment of Zoraida Ayram as I watched her trying to win my affections. Was it my money or my youth and good looks that she lusted after? She could have any part of me that she wanted, at that point, because I regarded her with the solidarity of all those who suffer. No matter how hardened by filthy lucre, I thought, no matter how vulgar her ambitions, she had suffered. Perhaps, like me, what she knew of love was nothing more, in reality, than sexual passion, the love that leaves behind not tears but tedium. Had anyone ever really won her heart? She did not seem to think of her Lucianito when I mentioned Yavaraté in her presence, and I could only image what other sorrows she had known. I could not doubt, however, that her woman’s heart throbbed with feeling. Softly, a melancholy melody arose within the shadowy perimeter of ­thatch-­roofed shacks, wafting lightly into the evening sky like incense from a censor. I had the impression that a flute was conversing with the stars. The night turned somehow bluer and smaller. I thought I heard singing from a place inconceivably distant in the forest, something like a chorus of nuns, their voices ethereal and mysterious. The madonna Zoraida had rested her squeezebox on her thigh and begun to play. The intimacy of her music in the darkness evoked something poignant in all who heard it. It spoke to each listener in a familiar voice. Various women of the settlement came to sit or kneel around the madonna on the grass with their little ones. Peace, mystery, melancholy. The spirit of the listeners climbed the arpeggios like ladders, left the material world behind, and Part Three · 175

undertook fabulous journeys, leaving their bodies behind in the shadowy circle of huts and trees. The sensibility of a poet allowed me to interpret the meaning of the music for each of the listeners. For the rubber tappers, it was a promise of redemption. Someday, someone (hopefully me) would reveal their plight to the eyes of an astonished world. For the women, the most enslaved of all, it promised not their own redemption but that of their children, who would surely see the aurora of liberty one day, although it was denied to their progenitors. And for all, it brought the gift of feeling what we don’t normally allow ourselves to feel. In the blink of an eye I relived my life, now as a spectator, rather than a protagonist. How indicative of my future had been my past! My tempestuous childhood, my rowdy and willful adolescence, my lonely, neglected young manhood. And who was it that now softened my heart toward all living creatures, both friend and foe? None other than the madonna Zoraida Ayram, with a childish ditty played on the accordion! I blessed and idealized her, as romantic inclinations encourage one to do. And recalling my circumstances, I despaired to find myself so ragged, impoverished, and ill-­prepared for love.

When Franco went to wake me up the next day, he found my hammock empty. He hurried to the riverbank, where, in the midst of my morning ablutions, I received the following news flash: “Get dressed quick. The madonna’s going to propose a business deal.” “Wait. My clothes aren’t dry yet.” “Who cares! This is a moment not to be missed. She got up early this morning and offered us coffee with crackers and two cans of tuna! She wants to talk to you while Váquiro’s not here. He left at dawn to supervise his rubber tappers and won’t be back before the middle of the afternoon.” “What does she want to propose?” “That you deal directly with her. If you want her help acquiring rubber, she’ll let you take everything that Cayenne has here in storage. She says that he owes her money and that maybe she’ll finally get paid. Come on, let’s go!” The madonna was outside her hut, chatting animatedly with Antonio and Helí, displaying her lace and her ringed fingers in a manner calculated to make them swoon with admiration. 176 · The Vortex

“Everything she has on, she’s got for sale,” warned Franco, “fabric, jewelry, and everything, stuff identical to what she’s wearing, or better. She’s saying she came here in a canoe with three Indian paddlers, and that she left her motor launch down on the Río Negro at the village of San Felipe, because the upper Isana is impassable. So I ask myself, where’s the merchandise that she’s hawking to us right now? I’ll bet she’s got a boat and crew hidden close by.” In the heat of the midday siesta, I decided to visit the woman in her boudoir, unannounced, with a prepared statement. I found her lazing in her hammock, smoking from her long, amber cigarette holder, one foot resting on the other, the hem of her dress sliding slowly back and forth on the floor. When she saw me, she sat up hurriedly, pretending to be annoyed at my impudence, but, fumbling with her unbuttoned blouse, she blinked her eyes and said nothing. And then, with a grand gesture, theatrical if you like, but assuredly heartfelt on this occasion, I lowered my eyes and murmured: “Cast not your eyes on my naked feet and mended clothing, señora. My poor appearance is but an illusion that confuses the terrain. The path that you seek passes through the thicket of my heart!” One look from the madonna was enough to reveal my miscalculation. She ignored my sincerity, declined to take advantage of the opening that I presented, and disdained to show an interest in my advances. Feeling ridiculous, I sat down with her in the hammock and brusquely pulled her against me. Arranging her hair, she protested. “My heavens, these Colombians are audacious.” “When on an important mission!” “Hush. Stop. Let me rest.” “You’re as unfeeling as your hair.” “What?” “I kissed your hair just now, and you didn’t feel it.” “Why?” “You didn’t feel it, because you didn’t care to, you awful tyrant!” She sat immobile for a moment, less bashful than bemused, without looking at me or speaking. Then, with an air of sudden decisiveness, she stood up. “Sir, don’t touch me, please. You’ve made a mistake.” “My heart never makes a mistake.” And with these words, I stood and bit her cheek, tasting her rice-­powder makeup. The madonna squeezed me against her breast and cried, in an unexpectedly weepy voice: Part Three · 177

“My angel, give me your business. Give it to me.” I simply took it from there.

Possibly ten little children with swollen bellies surrounded me holding out empty gourd dishes and whining “manioc, manioc” as their mothers had instructed them to do. From their vantage point in the next hut, the mothers encouraged their mendicant emissaries with looks and gestures. “Oh, give us manioc, please!” The madonna Zoraida Ayram extended her delicate, usurious hand— still a bit atremble, as the reader may imagine—to demonstrate her munificence and garner my applause. With evident authority, she unlocked the supply of provisions and allowed the children to eat their fill. As they swarmed into the large sack of manioc, an envious old crone alarmed them by crying out: “Children, run! It’s the old man. The bogeyman!” The children scattered with such haste that several spilled precious manioc. The littlest of them scooped up the spilled handfuls of food, as the others retreated, and ate it dirt and all. The “bogeyman,” in this case, was none other than old Clemente Silva, who, having gone fishing, returned carrying the inefficacious nets. The ancient pathfinder represented an ominous figure to the children of the rubber zone. “You just wait,” their mothers told them when they misbehaved. “Old man Silva will take you away, and the jungle will swallow you up.” The standoffishness of the Indian children reflected certain grotesque superstitions. For them, the white man is a sort of supernatural being, the friend of the devil, and the natural world conspires to strengthen him and cover up his crimes. On the rumored Island of Purgatory, disobedient Indian children could expect a horrible fate, to be tied up naked, exposed to the elements, unable to fend off the clouds of mosquitoes and vampire bats. By the age of five, the children of Indian rubber tappers are trooping off to work in crews with their mothers, tales of such grim punishments ringing in their ears, afraid of the overseer, who forces them to bleed the trees, afraid of the trees, which must hate being bled. Crews with lots of Indian children often cut down rubber trees so that a dozen or more little ones can bleed out the latex at once. “Don Clemente, why are these kids afraid of you?”

178 · The Vortex

“In me they see a scary future for themselves.” “But you bring good luck. Think of our situation just two days ago, compared with now.” My statement reminded me that we’d soon say good-­bye. Both were feeling a bit uncomfortable, or at least, I thought so. I perceived that the old man did not want to look me in the eye. “Have you spoken with any of my friends today?” “They’re all napping, because we went out fishing before dawn.” “Let’s go talk to them.” On the way, we passed near the river and saw a hut where a number of sad-­looking ­eight-­to ­thirteen-­year-­old Indian girls sat in a circle on the ground. They covered their nakedness only in the most basic manner, almost without clothes. One was picking lice from the hair of another, who had gone to sleep with her head in the first one’s lap. Others were engaged in rolling cigarettes with taborí bark instead of paper. One with dull eyes and dust-­caked skin sucked intermittently on a milky caimito fruit. Another, apparently with an infant of her own kicking its diminutive legs in her lap, avoided the little one’s cries of hunger by dandling her finger in its mouth. In sum, the most infinitely depressing scene imaginable! “Don Clemente, what’s going on with these girls?” “These are our masters’ concubines. Their parents traded them for merchandise or provisions, or maybe the overseers took them just to impose their authority. They’ve been carrying water on their heads or a little brother on their hips since they learned to walk. They were made concubines as soon as they reached puberty, and they generally become mothers while they’re still children themselves.” Shuddering with horror and indignation, a bit farther along the same trail we came upon an improvised lean-­to. Within was a hammock, and lying in that was a young man of about my own age, with a waxy complexion and an ecstatic expression on his face. He must have had some problem with his eyes, which were covered by a bandage. “Don Clemente, what’s the name of this person who just covered his face as if disgusted by my presence?” “Another Colombian, a loner who has problems with his vision. His name is Esteban Ramírez.” Walking over to the hammock and uncovering the man’s head, I said softly but with great emotion: “Hello, Ramiro Estévanez! Do you think that I don’t know it’s you?”

Part Three · 179

A singular affection had always bound me to Ramiro Estévanez. I would have liked to be his younger brother. As a boy, no other friend managed to inspire in me the confidence that we shared. Our friendship never descended to trivialities and had an unparalleled influence over me growing up. We conversed every day, but both of us always preferred the formality of usted to the intimacy of tú. He was magnanimous; I was impulsive. He was ever optimistic: and I, ever desolate, always expecting the worst. He was virtuous, platonic, philosophical; and I, sensual, mundane, and imaginative. And yet, without renouncing our innate contrasts, we reconciled them by the principle of complementarity, and through our daily conversations, we influenced each other’s behavior. He resisted the seduction of my romantic adventures, but I could tell, when he lectured me about them, that he took some pleasure in contemplating temptations that he was incapable of indulging in himself. I believe that, on more than one occasion, in spite of his superior attitude, he might have liked to exchange his temperance for my furor. Comparing his attitudes to mine became my inveterate habit, so that, whatever action I chose in a given situation, I invariably reflected: What would Ramiro think? He loved everything noble in life—home, country, religion, honest labor—all that is fine and praiseworthy. Even as a young man, he already provided conscientiously for his extended family and shone in the faithful execution of every social obligation. His only satisfactions were spiritual ones. From the clutches of poverty he wrested the true luxury of being generous with the little he possessed. He traveled the world, educated himself, compared civilizations, learned to comprehend both men and women, and communicated his sophisticated opinions with a sardonic half smile that accented his pungent analyses and playful paradoxes. Years ago, when I heard that he was courting a certain damsel known for her wealth and beauty, I asked him if that was prudent for an impecunious young man. Before my jocular commentary could proceed, however, he cut me off: “Can’t I even dream?” But dreaming destroyed him. He became withdrawn and melancholy and gradually denied me our former intimacy. Believing that I understood the reason, I insisted on probing indirectly: “One thing I could never endure is a wife whose family regards me, and my people, as inferior.” 180 · The Vortex

To which he replied: “I’ve thought of that. But what can I do? My heart has chosen her.” Shortly after this disappointment in love, Ramiro disappeared. I heard that he’d emigrated, although where wasn’t clear, and that he must be prospering, to judge by his family’s new, modest comforts in Bogotá. But now he had surfaced in this hellhole: hungry, physically disabled, using a distorted name, with a bandage over his eyes. I found his condition disconcerting and, for compassion’s sake, refrained from inquiring about the details. In vain, I waited for him to tell his story. Ramiro had changed. He offered no embrace, no cordial words, no expression of enthusiasm for our reunion, nor for the shared memories that welled up so powerfully in me. Angered by his coldness, I outdid it with a glacial silence of my own. Then, to mortify him completely, I delivered a telling blow in an offhand manner: “She’s married. Did you know that she got married?” The news revealed to me a previously unknown Ramiro Estévanez, more acerbic than philosophical, yet still able to perceive certain aspects of life with unusual clarity. Seizing my hand, he inquired: “Is she truly her husband’s partner, or merely his concubine?” “Who knows . . .” “Of course she possesses the wifely virtues prescribed by the gospel, but most husbands would drag her down into the mire. And her husband seems to be of the ordinary variety, a man who found himself between mistresses, a momentary deserter from the brothel, the sort who marries out of vanity or monetary interest, to acquire a social adornment and augment the prestige of his family. Such a man soon forgets his wife or perverts her innocence, because his sexual ardor has come to depend on the arts of a prostitute.” “Who cares, as long as she has the right surname?” “Who cares? Sweet Lord, anyone with a conscience!” His words stung me. Two could play at that game. I awaited the opportunity to strike as he continued to talk: “Speaking of surnames, I remember an anecdote concerning a government minister for whom I once clerked. The fellow was enormously popular. The waiting room of his office was thronged at all hours. I soon noticed something paradoxical, though. The supplicants rarely left with any material benefits, yet they went away more than satisfied, brimming with patriotic ardor. One day two dandies of the most elegant variety came for an appointment with the minister, and I saw how he received them, paying Part Three · 181

great attention to their surnames. ‘My last name is Zárraga,’ said the first one. ‘And mine is Cómbita,’ said the second one. ‘What a pleasure!’ cried the minister. ‘So I have before me descendants of the Zárragas and the Cómbitas of yore!’ So, when the two visitors left, I asked the minister the reason for his florid praise. ‘Praise?’ he replied. ‘If one is named Zárraga and the other, Cómbita, I assume that the surnames run in the family. It’s merely logical.’” So that Ramiro wouldn’t notice my admiration for his wit, I adopted a bored and superior expression. My adventures in the real world should count more, it seemed to me, than this person’s philosophizing. I ignored his former role as my adviser because now I wanted to assume the adviser’s role. Surely my r­ ough-­hewn character was more helpful, here in the jungle, than were his inane prudence and utopianism. And the proof was that, between him and me, he was the loser, far behind in the race for worldly triumph, or perhaps completely out of the race. Amid the ruins of his ideals, impossibly far from his preterit passions, his back to the wall, I hoped that at last he would react combatively. Surely he should to impose himself, avenge himself, rebel against destiny, and find redemption, at last, in virile combat, a man among men. Seeing him helpless, inert, inept, and unfortunate, I painted my own situation to him with a certain insolence calculated to dazzle him with my audacity. “So, you haven’t asked me what breeze blew me to the middle of the jungle.” “Ah . . . let’s see. Hmmm—excess energy, getting in touch with your inner conquistador . . . no, no, I know—you’re out searching for El Dorado!” “I stole a woman, then someone stole her from me and brought her to Amazonia. So I’ve come to kill the man who stole her.” “You know, that Lucifer costume looks kind of silly on you.” “You don’t believe me? Or are you questioning my decision?” “And is the woman in question really worth it? Because if she’s anything like the madonna Zoraida Ayram—” “Have you heard something?” “I thought I saw you go into her hut.” “So you’re not that blind after all!” “Not yet, anyway,” said Ramiro, touching his bandage. “This was my carelessness while I had a big ball of latex over the fire yesterday. I put my face down too close, and a burning green limb puffed smoke and steam in my eyes. It shouldn’t last too long.” “It was the trees’ revenge against your eyes.” “Or punishment for what my eyes have witnessed.” 182 · The Vortex

According to don Clemente Silva, Ramiro had witnessed the famous, tragic events at the backland city of San Fernando de Atabapo. Ramiro told how Colonel Funes buried his enemies alive. He had seen extraordinary acts of pillage and cruelty, and I burned with curiosity to learn the lurid details. Here was yet another interesting aspect of Ramiro. Because he seemed willing to reconstruct our lost fraternal intimacy, my resentment diminished, and we began to exchange broad descriptions of our respective troubles. That day we didn’t speak of the fearsome Colonel Funes, however. Ramiro’s enumeration of his troubles was lengthy, indeed, almost as if he were imploring my protection. What bothered me most was to hear of the unspeakable humiliations that my friend had endured at the hands of a particular overseer nicknamed, for predictable reasons, “the Argentine.” This monster tortured his tappers with hunger, paying them one mere handful of manioc per liter of latex. He had first appeared at Guaracú at the head of a group of runaways from the Ventuario zone. He had then decided to sell his friends to Cayenne, which he accomplished by first forcing them to tap rubber himself, driving them very hard and whipping them constantly to demonstrate their productivity and increase the price of their new contracts. He sold and rented women, too, or used them to reward the obedience and laboriousness of his workers. Little by little, “the Argentine’s” general nastiness won Cayenne’s respect and provoked the jealous antipathy of Váquiro. As Ramiro related these abuses, a line of men and women filed into the camp carrying buckets and dragging leafy branches of massaranduba, the dense smoke of which excels for fumigating latex. While some men slung their hammocks to sweat through a fever, or possibly hoping that a rest would reduce the swelling caused by their beriberi, others started the fire. Hungry children accosted their arriving mothers for ­breast-­feeding, sometimes even before the poor women could get the buckets, brimful of latex, off their heads. Váquiro arrived with them, as did an unknown individual wearing a raincoat and waving a riding crop. The man in the raincoat had a large container readied, and using half a gourd shell, he measured into it the amount of liquid rubber presented by each tapper, accompanying his every motion with a litany of insults, admonitions, and threats, often ordering that a reduced food ration be given to the family of the worker in question. “There he is,” said Ramiro, shuddering slightly. “That’s him in the raincoat.” “What? The fellow who’s peering at me like that? He’s no Argentine! Believe me, I know him well. That’s Bogotá’s own Petardo Lesmes.” Part Three · 183

Aware that he was observed, Lesmes doubled down on his admonitions and strode officiously to and fro, glowering, in a vain attempt to impress me with his industry and the enormous difficulty of pleasing him. In a theatrical hurry, he walked straight at me while pretending to make annotations in a small notebook, so that he would have an excuse to trample me “by mistake.” “Ah . . . your name?” he said, looking up as if surprised to find me in his way. “Your crew’s report?” He was pretending not to recognize me. Annoyed by his insolence, I delivered my reply in a loud voice, a soliloquy audible to the entire camp. “I’m from the crew of ‘fancy pants.’ In Bogotá, they gave me the name ‘Petardo Lesmes,’ although I don’t know why. It’s not as though I were always asking everybody for a loan. And anyway, I paid several people back. No, no, when in need, I prefer to pawn a personal object of value, perhaps my engagement ring, even risking that my fiancée might find out. Imagine! But one must keep up appearances! At school, I spent my time writing anonymous notes to cousins whose suitors failed to meet with my approval because they lacked money or simply weren’t ‘chic.’ I spent a lot of time on street corners, too, slandering the women who passed by, building my reputation as a don Juan falsely at their expense. My political experience? Well, I was made treasurer of the local credit bureau by unanimous agreement of its members, and my cut was only 15 percent of the one hundred thousand dollars we distributed. I did express some reservations, of course, about the character of the deal, but they explained that I’d be a fool not to join in the general looting of the national treasury. They pointed out men with sterling reputations who did it all the time. So-­and-­so channeled official business to his friends and got thumping kickbacks; another guy merrily falsified checks on public accounts and got away with it; somebody else paid himself a salary suitable for his elevated social presence, which he was quite right to do, even without requiring himself to do any actual work. After all, how can an individual spend all day surrounded by public funds without free access to them? It wouldn’t be humane, would it? Who came up with this term ‘embezzlement,’ anyway? I’m here until the so-­called embezzlement storm blows over. Then I’ll go back to Bogotá, saying that I was in New York, which everyone will believe because I’ll be wearing the latest fashion—a fur coat and all that. And my high-­toned friends and relations will recommend me for further gainful public employment. God save Colombia! And that’s the report of the ‘fancy pants’ crew!” Thus I concluded my impromptu speech with a significant look at Estévanez, quite pleased at having found such an appropriate way to demon184 · The Vortex

strate my mordant wit and take the ersatz ‘Argentine’ down a notch or two. Lesmes, his expression unaltered, made the following argument. “My aunts and my sisters will pay it all back.” “What will they use for money? Your family never had any! We were going to inherit roughly equal amounts.” “Arturo Cova equal to me? How on earth could that be?” “How? Like this!” I grabbed the riding crop out of his hand and hit him across the cheek with it, whereupon he turned and ran away, his raincoat flapping and his mouth jabbering. Could someone lend him a gun? Because he was going to kill me. Very amusing! Váquiro, the madonna, and my friends ran to restrain me. A corpulent tapper smiled at me a bit menacingly: “If you’d hit me in the face,” he said, “one of us would be dead already.” His friends hurried to surround us, saying: “Take it easy, tough guy! Remember back on the Putumayo, that guy Chispita whipped your ass all the time!” “Yeah, but next time I see him, I’m cutting off his hands.”

“Franco, what did Ramiro Estévanez tell you? What are the rumors in the camp?” “The workers loved the way that you humiliated Lesmes, but now they’re sort of on tenterhooks, wondering what might happen next. I’m a little nervous myself. The catire and I have done what you ordered about trying to organize a revolt, but nobody’s signed on. They wonder about our plans, and particularly about you. To be honest, they think you might want to lead them today and sell them tomorrow. I’m afraid that word of our intentions will spread. This morning early, Petardo Lesmes left camp and wanted to take Clemente Silva with him, saying Váquiro won’t let Silva go to Manaus.” “That canoe has got to leave tonight without fail!” “I do wish it were bigger. Then we could all go to Manaus.” “No, no. We’ve got to sit tight in case the travelers need help. What happens if they get stopped? We’ll sit tight in Guaracú until they’ve had a chance to slip down the Isana, and when we’re sure they’ve made it safely, then we’ll escape from here. By then, the Colombian consul in Manaus will have time to set the diplomatic wheels in motion and travel to meet us on Part Three · 185

the Río Negro. I’m calculating that we need to wait about two months before we escape. It would be longer, but the madonna has offered to let our emissaries take her motor launch from San Felipe. “That’s something else. Compass says that he doesn’t want to abandon you and that he won’t accept favors from that woman, because she held him as a slave even after she learned that he was Lucianito’s father.” “No, no. It was settled yesterday. Don Clemente and the mulato are going with two paddlers. Their passports are signed and in order. Their supplies are in the canoe. Now I’ve got to write a letter to the Colombian consul in Manaus.” I went immediately to find old Clemente, who seemed to be wavering. My words brought tears to his eyes. “Go! Don’t concern yourself with my safety. Go, for God’s sake, with the bones of your son. If our plans are discovered, all will be lost. Save your tears to soften the heart of our consul and motivate him to come and liberate us. Bring him upriver from Manaus, traveling day and night, straight to the Guainía, and I’ll time our departure to meet you there. Look for us in Jaguanari, at Manuel Cardoso’s place, and if they tell you we’ve gone overland, come after us. We won’t go far away.” Then I embraced him. “Go on, you big lout. Just don’t forget to come back, okay? Like you, we’ve got homes to go back to and old mothers to take care of. Think of it, if we die here, we’ll be worse off than poor Luciano Silva because there won’t be anyone to carry our bones home.” And although Váquiro and Zoraida were expecting me for dinner, I locked myself in Cayenne’s office and, in the company of Ramiro Estévanez, wrote the report that don Clemente Silva promised to put in the hand of our country’s diplomatic representative in Manaus, a devastating—and stylistically scintillating—indictment of the rubber boom. You are reading it right now.

That night, Váquiro, characteristically tipsy, interrupted our work with gunshots in the air. “Liquor! Tobacco!” Helí Mesa appeared in the doorway, too, carrying a torch. “The canoe is ready, but there’s nobody to measure out the hundredweight of rubber that they’re taking to cover costs.” 186 · The Vortex

And the madonna, with irritating casualness, made herself at home in the dingy office, speaking to me in familiar tones, serving little cups of coffee that she sweetened for me, testing them herself to adjust the sugar, offering me the corner of her apron to wipe my lips. In front of the chaste Ramiro, she hugged me from behind, rested her chin on my shoulder, and watched my pen fly across the page. “I’d love to be able to write your language, my angel. What are you saying?” “I’m telling them at the Casa Rosas that your latex is of the finest quality.” Ramiro, indignant, left the room. “My love, don’t say that! They’ll want me to pay them.” “You owe them money?” “No, it’s not my debt, but still—” “You underwrote someone else’s debt?” “That’s right.” “Someone whose rubber came into your hands.” “Yes, as a gift for me, though—not to pay off his debt.” “And this someone was killed by a tree. Right? Maybe the tree of the knowledge of good and evil?” “How do you know about that?” “Remember that I lived on the Vaupés.” The madonna, disconcerted, backed away, but I held her by the shoulders and obliged her to speak. “Calm down. It’s not your fault that the boy died. He committed suicide, right?” “Yes. Yes, he did . . . but don’t tell his friends. Luciano had so many debts! He wanted us to marry in Manaus and come live in the rubber zone, something absurd, ridiculous. On our last trip we were camped by those big thundering rapids when I broke it off, ended things. He started to cry and climbed into my hammock. I thought he wanted to fool around, but then a shot, and my breast was inundated with his blood. Of course, he knew where I carry my gun.” As she finished her account, with her hands on her blouse as if trying to cover the blood stain in question, the madonna made her way out of the door and left me alone. A storm of screaming and imprecations suddenly burst forth from the next hut. Clemente Silva and my comrades came to me in fury. “They threw them away, dear God in heaven!” “You mean—” “The bones of my son! They threw them in the river! That bitch didn’t like them around, so she—” Part Three · 187

His voice choked off and he concluded, turning away: “Okay, now you can kill them, for all I care.” Moments later, I watched the old man’s slender silhouette above the untied canoe, still slouching with grief and trembling with rage. I waded into the water for a last farewell embrace and to hear his final admonitions. “Kill them if you want. I’ll be back. But pardon poor Alicia. Even though I’ve never met her, do it for me. It’s as if she were my daughter María Gertrudis.” The canoe drifted silently into the night, and its occupants waved good-­bye as the river pulled them away. Above us all shone the limitless, constellation-­ studded sky of the tropics, frighteningly bright.

It’s been almost six weeks that, at the instigation of Ramiro Estévanez, I’ve been killing time by writing my story in the big, unused account book that gathers dust on Cayenne’s desk. Feats of d­ erring-­do, puerile details, pages of peevishness compose the precarious fabric of my narrative, an insignificant, frivolous tale that I write with a heavy heart, realizing that I’ve not accomplished the most transcendental things in life. He errs who supposes me to be motivated by a desire for notoriety. I really have no other goal than to excite in Ramiro Estévanez the emulation of my accomplishments, made more approachable by the confession of my passions and defects. The example of successful recklessness has ever constituted the best medicine for the pusillanimous. At this point, Ramiro and I have said it all to each other. There is nothing left to tell. His story—life as a trader on the lower Orinoco at Ciudad Bolívar, labor as a miner on some tributary of the Caroní, activities as a faith healer in San Fernando de Atabapo—totally lacks color and fascination. I found nothing in it to admire, not a single outstanding gesture or characteristic episode worthy of literary luster. In contrast, my footprints stand out in retrospect, admittedly ephemeral, but not to be confused with the common throng. Mine is a story worth telling, one upon which I can reflect in tranquility during this period of forced inactivity at Guaracú, assessing each of my acts, positively or negatively, according to its merits. If Váquiro could read what I have said about him, he would no doubt maroon me naked on the Island of Purgatory, where the swarms of arthropods would put an end to satire and satirist both. But “the general” is more ignorant, even, than the madonna. Unable to distinguish the letters of the 188 · The Vortex

alphabet, he has learned to write his signature, but not to spell his name. Sometimes I hear his sandals flapping on the veranda, and he comes inside the office to chat. “By now, I guess the canoe must be below the Yuruparí rapids . . .” “You think they’re all right? Petardo Lesmes—” “Won’t cause any problems. Don’t worry. He’s on the Inírida and should be back next week.” “But, General, sir, is he following your orders?” “Yes. I sent him to catch Indians. We need some more workers. And how about you, Cova? What’s all this you’re writing?” “Just penmanship practice, General, instead of slapping mosquitoes.” “That’s smart. For lack of practice, I forgot what little I knew of that stuff. Fortunately, my brother is a writing ace. He says that his spelling’s no good, but one time I saw him write half a page without a dictionary.” “Was your brother with you in San Fernando de Atabapo?” “Huh? No, no.” “Did you know my compatriot Ramiro there?” “Yes, yes. I’ve told you several times that he and I escaped together. We both owed money to that Indian Funes! You knew that Funes is a pure-­ blooded savage, right? If he’d caught us, our goose was cooked, as they say. Anyway, on account of I had met Cayenne, we came looking for him, all the way up the Guainía to the Inírida, and finally, the Isana. And here we are!” “General, my countryman is extremely grateful to you.” “He’ll tell you I’m not scared of Carlos Funes. Ask him! I preferred not to dirty my hands with his blood, is all. Funes is tough, though. They say he’s killed six hundred men and no telling how many savages. Get your pal to tell you about all the killing.” “He’s told me already. I’ve got written it down.”

The sixty or so houses that compose the Venezuelan hamlet of San Fernando de Atabapo make it a major urban agglomeration in the wilds of Orinoquia. There, three large rivers converge: the mud-­red current of the Atabapo, the ­honey-­colored Guaviare, and the impetuous Orinoco, with waves like the sea. And around the hamlet, jungle and more jungle. This was the setting of the massacre perpetrated by the infamous Colonel Funes on May 8, 1913. The victims were rubber workers, and the killing was done for black gold. The cause? A squabble among rubber barons. Even Part Three · 189

the local governor traded in rubber. In fact, to say “Funes” was to name a system more than an individual person. “Funes” named a state of mind, an unrestrained struggle for profit at any cost, a sordid empire of envy. Only one person bore the name, but many deserved it. The San Fernando massacre had many origins. There was the inveterate custom of extracting wealth from the Indians and the forest, heedless of the destructive consequences. There was the trade in cheap merchandise for the rubber tappers, peddled to them at profits of 1000 percent or more. There was the competition of the governor himself, who used a government warehouse, paid no tax, and alienated the other traders. And hovering over it all, the pernicious influence of the jungle, which perverts the minds of men as liquor does. The result was an atmosphere of utter ruthlessness, by which murder became a normal way to do business. Also normal was the way that the governor ran San Fernando de Atabapo as a personal fiefdom. As in colonial times, the holder of the office was expected to use it to generate wealth for himself and his family, as well as for the state. He conducted business affairs no less frequently at the governor’s desk than at the government warehouse. He paid judges, clerks, and administrators from his own pocket, and they did his bidding unquestioningly. He hired, fired, and paid them according to his passing whims and used them to promulgate whatever laws or regulations crossed his mind. The governor at San Fernando truly had all the reins of power in his hands. It happened frequently that a traveler from far away stopped in front of a San Fernando store and addressed the man behind the counter. “Your honor, when you’ve finished weighing rubber, could you please open the courthouse? We have important claims to file.” “Sorry,” says the judge (for it is he at the scales), “but I don’t have time to open the courthouse this week. I’m busy with a shipment of manioc that the governor is sending to his installations on the Beripamoni.” Nobody was surprised to hear him say it. Everybody needed to take care of business. Salaries were paid from profits, after all. Governor Roberto Pulido had not decreed any particularly egregious taxes, yet he constituted an impediment to profitability, according to his competitors, who plotted to do away with him. Pulido’s crucial error was to decree that the tariff on rubber exports must be paid in cash, at San Fernando, and not, as had previously been the practice, using ious drawn on the large commercial establishments in distant Ciudad Bolívar. Who had cash in San Fernando? Not most traders, who were chronically short on cash and operated normally on credit. Pulido was accused of creating a bonanza 190 · The Vortex

for his rich friends. Those with capital on hand could buy rubber at bargain prices and sell it dearly on a market they now monopolized. Not invited to the party, the governor’s accusers swept him and his fiefdom into the river, killing seventy people in one night.

Here is the account given me by Ramiro Estévanez: “For days I saw preparations for the gruesome event. People whispered that Colonel Funes had conceived delusions of grandeur. He was in a position to control all southern Venezuela, perhaps even to make himself president, according to the flatterers who had his ear. They were flatterers, but not false prophets. Never before, in any country, has a man exercised such tyrannical power over life and property as did Colonel Funes in the enormous and tormented rubber zone that has only two routes of access to the outside world. The first is the route dominated by the great Atures and Maipures falls on the Orinoco, and the second is the route down the Guainía, controlled by the customs station at Amandona. Within these limits, the dominion of Funes rivaled that of the Casa Arana in the Amazon region of Peru. “One day I went to the colonel’s house and found him barring the door to the courtyard. Although he tried to shut the door as quickly as possible, I saw a lot of men—rubber workers by the look of them—sitting around inside, many of them cleaning firearms. They had been brought from the Pasimoni zone, as I later learned, and had arrived at midnight along with tappers from other zones whose presence had been concealed within the houses of their respective masters. “Funes saw that I’d noticed the men’s presence and, speaking to my ear, he explained: ‘They’re ours, but I can’t let them out yet, because they’ll get too drunk. What can I do for you?’ And I replied: ‘I owe Espinosa a thousand pesos Venezuelan, and he won’t stop breathing down my neck. Can you lend me a thousand?’ At which Funes smiled: ‘I’m always here for my friends. Trust me. Espinosa has breathed down your neck for the last time. In fact, I’ll let you pay him back with your own hands. Be patient. We’re all waiting for the governor to arrive.’ “Pulido arrived at sundown, returning from Casiquiare in the Yasaná, a large motor launch. He arrived quite sick with fever and went straight to his house in the company of several employees. Meanwhile, his enemies swept the riverfront clean of smaller boats and canoes and removed the Part Three · 191

rudder from the Yasaná. They hid the rudder, which was the size of a table, in the back patio of the Funes commercial house on the Atabapo. They were leaving no means of escape. “The night arrived, ominous with distant lightning, and the private army assembled by Funes poured into the streets, ponchos over their faces, carrying Winchesters and walking a bit unsteadily because of the rum they’d been given to enflame their animal instincts. They strode down the three deserted streets parallel to the riverfront, muttering the names of their assigned victims, each of them improvising personal additions to the list, as well—rivals, creditors, abusive bosses, targets of opportunity. Occasionally someone stepped on one of the many sleeping pigs and cursed until being quickly shushed by others. “Five unarmed men were playing cards on the counter of Capecci’s store. Five assassins, among them Funes himself, positioned themselves outside the store, waiting for the shooting to start at the governor’s house on the corner. An oil lamp burned in the governor’s bedroom, throwing its light out the window against the rain, which was just beginning. More assassins approached the open window. Inside, Pulido sat in his hammock, bundled in blankets, sipping a hot potion intended to make him sweat and break his fever. Turning his eyes toward the night, he detected something outside the window and asked: ‘Who’s there?’ The muzzles of twenty rifles spat an answer, filling the room with smoke and blood. “That was the terrible signal, the beginning of the hecatomb. Gunfire in the streets, the stores, the houses. Confusion, lamentations, flashes of light, shadows running in the darkness. So murderous were the murderers that they freely murdered each other. In lugubrious processions, they dragged corpses toward the river by an arm or leg or shirt collar, sometimes tripping over them, like a file of ants carrying unwieldy loads. There was nowhere to run or hide, nobody to whom the innocent could appeal. Women and children sometimes ran blindly toward the groups of armed men, who shot them before they came close, amid gales of drunken laughter and cries of ‘Long live Colonel Funes! Long live free trade! Down with tyranny!’ “Eventually new cries arose: ‘To the colonel’s house,’ and ‘To the motor launch.’ Pulido’s motor launch, its rudder restored, idled loudly near the Funes store. The shooting stopped. Funes was busy deciding life and death on a case-­by-­case basis, among all the inhabitants of the town now running to him. Which of them would be executed momentarily? ‘You stay here,’ said Funes to one, and to another: ‘You come with me.’ The latter went with him into the back patio of the commercial house, which was separated from 192 · The Vortex

the Atabapo by a high wall. The patio was shortly full of frightened faces. A large door opened onto the riverbank, where the motor launch awaited, and outside the door, holding a machete, stood a Funes employee named González, who called, ‘Time to go aboard, boys.’ But whoever stepped through the door rolled down the steep bank outside, decapitated, without uttering a word. “One heard only the night, the storm, the idling motor.”

“From where I stood, I could see the group of men waiting to board the launch but hesitant to go through the door, trembling with an intuition of danger, like bulls that smell blood on the grass. “The cavernous voice from the other side of the door said again: ‘Time to go aboard.’ No one went. So the voice began to call the men by name. The men in the patio resisted only timidly, quarreling over who should go first: ‘I heard them call your name,’ or ‘No, no, you go.’ Effectively, they were pushing each other toward Death. “I watched as a steady stream of men entered Funes’s store carrying all sorts of things—rubber, manioc, imported merchandise—the plunder, the material cause of the slaughter of so many people. Some had died simply because their rivals clamored to displace them. Some had died because they worked for the wrong boss. Are so-­and-­so’s crews getting the best of us? Let’s kill some of his workers. Killing workers with large debts was especially bad for their bosses’ bottom lines. Some had died because they were friends, family, or dependents of the despised governor. Others died because of jealousy or drink or to settle old scores. “Funes saw me motionless, witnessing the scene. “‘What the hell are you doing without your gun? You haven’t been any help at all, have you? And look, I already paid that guy back for you!’ “He held his machete near a light so that I could see the blood on it, then he pushed me toward the door, saying: “‘If you don’t help us defend our rights and liberties, people will be suspicious. Better have something to show—a head, an ear, whatever. Take that gun over there and go get something to show. If possible, bring me a piece of Dellepiani or Baldomero.’ “A group of lanterns had collected on the riverbank beyond the port, and I watched them advance along the water’s edge, illuminating the mud and weeds. The lanterns were carried by women with their shawls over their Part Three · 193

heads, looking for their dead, keening steadily. Occasionally, their cries registered some notable atrocity. ‘Look what they did to him!’ “In many houses, masked men found other ways to dispose of bodies. ‘Get them out of here before they start to stink,’ pleaded an old lady as she piled smoldering ashes on the bodies provisionally buried in her garbage heap. Burning and burying could be done behind closed doors, whereas dragging a corpse to the river made an undesirable public statement. “Groups of armed men still roamed the dark streets, trying to disguise their voices and appearance a bit upon encountering another group. Sometimes they cautiously felt one another’s left sleeve in the darkness, because a ­rolled-­up left sleeve was the agreed badge of loyalty to Funes. Still, nobody really knew for certain who was who, or who wanted to kill whom, so the groups met and separated without identifying themselves or asking any questions. The rain ended and the dead disappeared, but still the lazy sun delayed its definitive closure of the horrible night. One man leaned toward another, lighting his face with the glow of a cigar. “‘Is that you, Vácares?’ “‘Yes—’ “The affirmative reply was cut short by the knife that sliced through his cheek, not quite reaching his jugular vein, obviously its intended target. According to Vácares, the knife belonged to Funes himself, who roamed the streets that night incognito. That’s what ‘the general’ says now, but it’s not the story I heard him tell back in San Fernando, about how he’d fought off a gang of ten attackers, ­single-­handedly, so that they only managed to scratch his cheek. “Yes, a lot of stories were made up after that night in San Fernando de Atabapo. You wouldn’t believe the depths to which people stooped to save their own skins and ingratiate themselves with Funes, who had become the master of their destinies. What praise and applause for the petty despot! What expressions of support and loyalty! And what a plague of snitching and backbiting, as people jockeyed for position in the new order! From then on, the walls had ears. Survivors of the calamity feared even to admit that it had occurred. No one could investigate what had happened to their disappeared friends and loved ones without risking the most ghastly sort of execution, buried alive up to the shoulders on the riverbank, where the sun would slowly broil their brains, and the vultures pick out their eyes. It is shocking to contemplate such barbarity in a modern country. “And the barbarity spread not just throughout the environs of San Fernando but throughout all the surrounding rivers and jungle camps, where 194 · The Vortex

the struggle for rubber profits became a general melee, a war of extermination. Every entrepreneur aspired to kill the competition, strictly for personal gain, but also paying lip service to Funes, who would invariably sanction the killings, as long as the killers proclaimed their loyalty and did his bidding. “Everyone loses with the rise of a tin-­pot tyrant like Funes. There was scant truth in the rumor that Governor Pulido had grown rich by abusing his office. Rubber doesn’t make anybody rich in the end. In the jungle, even those who act rich mostly own credit. Their ‘riches’ exist mostly on the account books of large commercial houses in cities like Manaus, Iquitos, or Ciudad Bolívar. They are ‘rich’ like the madonna, who never has much cash. They ‘own’ rubber tappers who disappear because they pay their debts more often with their lives than with money. They ‘own’ paddlers who disappear with the cargoes in their charge. They ‘own’ Indians who disappear because of disease, ill-­treatment, or escape. The vassalage of the rubber zones is a lifelong arrangement for both lord and vassal. “All those who enter the green hell looking for black gold are ultimately damned. The jungle seduces them, the jungle retains them, and if they try to escape, the jungle brings them back. Those who have experienced the jungle cannot afterward be satisfied with city life. The jungle has left its mark on them, changed them. Away from it, they feel old, listless, and depressed, thinking only of the jungle, and of going back, even though they know that death awaits them there. Indeed, their fate is already sealed. Should they ignore the call to return, they will not survive for long in the city. They will be racked by mysterious diseases—a legacy, their doctors will say, of time in the jungle— the ultimate revenge of a natural world that they had heedlessly exploited. “What then became of the rubber zones controlled by Colonel Funes? It is a ghastly question even to consider. After the 1913 massacre of San Fernando de Atabapo, the despot reigned supreme. He had tasted blood and was still thirsty. He set his sights on the governorship and proceeded to liquidate anyone who stood in his way, or even anyone who competed with him commercially. Funes represented the triumph of a certain kind of economic logic. “Beware the triumph of such logic.”

Physically and morally, the wait at Guaracú has worn me down. The madonna has sucked strength and optimism out of me with her kisses. In bed she is insatiable, a she-­wolf. My decline has happened quickly in her embrace, Part Three · 195

as when one holds a candle sideways and the flame destroys the wax that it needs to live. I abhor the madonna because of the way that her mercenary softness and her tyrannical breasts incite my flesh. Today more than ever I feel nostalgia for the pure, ideal woman whose arms offer serenity to the disquieted, spirit to the disheartened, the woman whose presence is a balm that refreshes, a presence that calms vices rather than inciting them. Today more than ever, I can recognize and yearn for the opportunities that I wasted in my youth, when so many pure maidens looked upon me with favor and entertained, in their innocent hearts, the dream of making me happy. Alicia herself, so stubborn and inexperienced, maintained a certain dignity in all situations, even the most intimate. Despite my irascible temper, my perennial rancor, and the anger I feel right now when I think about her, I cannot fail to recognize Alicia’s essential honesty, however degraded and perfidious the actions for which I have had to repudiate her. What a vast difference between Alicia and the madonna, whom she easily surpasses in grace and elegance, not to mention youth! The vulgar Zoraida Ayram is both overweight and overripe. That was precisely my first impression of her, and intimacy has not diminished it. Although she is well beyond forty years old, not a single gray hair appears on her head owing to the wonders of modern cosmetology. She cannot fool me, however; I know that those gray hairs are there. And how tedious the presence, how repugnant the kisses, that one does not desire! Our plans required that I not reveal the repulsion that Zoraida now provoked in me, and none of my friends can relieve me in the wearisome duty of satisfying her. She has eyes only for me, the man with credit at the Casa Rosas. I’ve even started to keep her occasionally at arm’s length with a stern look, an ironic phase, an expression of superfluity. Recently, I’ve turned my back and walked away from her. So today I’m looking for ways to make up. Lately the rubber tappers have been coming to abuse the Indian girls, the customary prize for a productive week’s work at a jungle camp. As soon as they finish fumigating, stinking with the smell of smoke and raw latex, they establish their place in a line of waiting workers. The eager ones trade something, such as tobacco or quinine pills, for a better place in line. Last night a couple of new girls, whom all the workers wanted to try, couldn’t endure it and began crying loudly. Váquiro tried to whip them into submission, but one of the girls fought back so violently that she broke her arm. I decided to intervene and took her to the safety of my hammock. 196 · The Vortex

“Enough abuse of these poor women! Anyone else need protection?” Silence. Several of the women went toward my hut. Nearby workers were rotating a large ball of blackened, solidified latex on a spit over a smoky fire, where they noisily entertained themselves with obscene commentaries on my actions and my imputed intentions. Their laughing faces flickered in the firelight as they ladled small amounts of liquid latex carefully onto the rotating ball, which swelled imperceptibly with the passage of hours. “Hey,” one of them called out to me. “If you’re so worried about these girls, why don’t you lend us the madonna?” I declined to respond in any way, and Zoraida was immediately incensed. “So, I get no respect? And you’re not going to do anything? How about you pay me what you owe me, right now!” “I don’t owe you anything!” And this morning, when I went to apologize, she would have nothing of it. I found her tearful, wearing her finery and, above all, seething with rage. “You ingrate! So, you don’t owe me anything?” I put my hands on her cheeks, looking for a safe place to kiss, when suddenly I lunged backward, ashen white, stumbling for the door. “Franco,” I called. “God almighty! The madonna is wearing Griselda’s emerald earrings.”

How to describe Franco’s countenance as the meaning of my words sank in? He was sitting beside Ramiro watching Helí Mesa weave a small basket out of palm fronds. At the sound of his wife’s name, he instinctively balled his fists, as if preparing to defend her. Gradually, however, his face glowed red with shame, and he bowed his head, grieving the insult to his honor. “What do I care about that woman?” His voice was angry, but his expression suggested resignation. Moving automatically, his hands undid the basket that he had begun to weave and let the materials drop. After a moment, though, he said roughly: “I want to see those earrings with my own eyes. Where is that thieving Turk?” “Hush! Be careful! Here she comes!” Zoraida approached with an unlit cigarette dangling from her lower lip. Franco lit a match and held it out to her. When she bent over the flame, I could see him fight the urge to grab her by the ears. Part Three · 197

“That’s them. That’s them,” he repeated when she was out of earshot. He climbed facedown into his hammock and said nothing else. That moment clarified everything for me. To kill a man has become my primary obligation, my only purpose. On my face, I feel the chilly breath of the coming tempest. Suddenly it is here: the time so long awaited, the objective so fervently sought. The future has become the present. For months, as I’ve advanced toward this goal, the final conflict has seemed small, simple, and remote. Now that I face it, however, in failing health and sagging spirit, the challenge seems colossal. But do not expect to see me shrink from the goal. Oh, no, I’ll meet it head-­on, ignoring the interior voice that warns me away! My friends are unanimous about the course of action that I must follow. “If Barrera is around here, what should I do? What is my duty?” “To kill him! To kill him!” And even you, Ramiro Estévanez! Even you give me the same fatal mandate, just when I was half hoping, possibly because of cowardice, to hear your customary words of calm reason and moderation. Oh, inexorable voices, remember that your wish is my command!

Guess what. “Missy” Griselda is nearby. Franco and Helí saw her boat at a hidden mooring not far from the camp. She was on deck holding a lantern while unknown Indians loaded stolen rubber. Although she didn’t see my friends, she definitely knows that we are looking for her, because Charlemagne and Dollar recognized her and ran to her. Griselda took the dogs with her when the boat finished loading. Ramiro Estévanez was the first to realize that, after nightfall, a line of Indian workers had begun to carry loads of rubber from the storage huts to a hidden mooring. The girl I’d taken under my wing made the revelation to him as Ramiro changed the bandage on her broken arm. She told us where we could hide to watch the proceedings after dark. We saw ten, fifteen, possibly twenty Yeral-­speaking natives carrying their loads as silently as if stepping on a carpet and, bringing up the rear, more surprisingly, came none other than the madonna Zoraida Ayram. “Grab her. Shh! Tie her up. Put a stop to this. Quiet!” Those were our whispered comments as the madonna melted in the darkness. Without taking time to get our guns (which had been hidden since our arrival), we went directly to the madonna’s hut. Inside her mosquito netting, her s­ till-­warm hammock was stuffed with blankets to simulate a sleeping oc198 · The Vortex

cupant. Otherwise, all was normal: her fur slippers beneath the hammock, her baggage intact, a cigarette butt still glowing in a corner on the earthen floor. The madonna had not left for good, but we needed to keep our eyes peeled. The following night, as Ramiro entertained Váquiro in his hut, and I entertained the madonna in hers, Franco and Helí donned native clothing, heaved a load onto their shoulders, and secretly joined the line of contrabandists to investigate their operation. Franco’s dogs, finding themselves alone, went looking for Franco and, following his scent, found Griselda instead. “If not for the behavior of the dogs,” Franco told me the next day, “I wouldn’t have recognized her, so emaciated, the ghost of her former self. We took a big risk last night, going in disguise to see what those smugglers were up to. If they’d discovered us, they’d have shot us. Griselda didn’t say a word when she let the dogs on board, but she looked all around before she shoved off.” “Too bad! Now there’s a danger that she won’t return.” Then the catire announced our plan: “Let’s dig up our carbines and go find out where that boat is moored during the day. We’ll say we’re off tapping rubber. If Missy Griselda’s got the dogs with her, we’ll have no problem finding her. All we’ve got to do is whistle.” That was the plan. But my friends have been gone five days now, and the uncertainty is driving me crazy.

The madonna is pensive, but she’s dissimulating, and her dissimulation is incompatible with my limited patience. Sometimes I feel like slapping some sense into her, asking her outright about Barrera and the people that he recruited to be rubber workers. Other times, I try to forget all about it and resign myself to whatever may happen, turning my back to events, so to speak, in order to avoid the stress of watching them unfold. On whom should I place my hopes? On old Compass? God knows if he’s been able to reach Manaus. If so, there is a good chance that the Colombian consul will declare that he has no jurisdiction over this remote region thousands of miles away. He may read my letter and hear don Clemente’s description, then extend on his desk a large, expensive, detailed, and highly deficient official map of Colombia, sent to him from Bogotá, which he will examine for a long time before removing his spectacles and announcing gravely: Part Three · 199

“Rivers with those names do not figure on the map. I’m sorry. Perhaps they are located in Venezuela. You should consult the authorities in Ciudad Bolívar.” And he will feel quite satisfied and authoritative in his stupidity. Poor Colombia! Even your official geographers and mapmakers misrepresent you! And what of your abducted children beyond your borders? Meanwhile, I have to be alert with the madonna and somehow endure her. More than her cluelessness in love or her relentlessness in business, what has bothered me in the last few days is her hypocrisy, which is exceeded only by my ability to detect it. Her practice of feigning this or that for my benefit began quite recently. Why? Could it be, as Ramiro suggests, that she has received some secret warning about me, from Barrera, perhaps, from Petardo Lesmes, or even from Cayenne? “Zoraida, what’s going on? You’ve changed with me.” “You’re the one who decided that you prefer Indians.” “So that’s it! You have reason to know better. And you shouldn’t doubt I’ll keep my word to you. Do you need a character witness? It will have to be someone who has known me for years, who’s done business with me. Actually, you already know such a man. When Silva gets back from Manaus with the canoe and resources, I’ll go look for that man in Jaguanari, because I owe him money. His name is Barrera.” The madonna started involuntarily and opened her lips, batting her eyelashes. “Narciso Barrera? Your compatriot?” “Right, who has a partnership with your compatriot Pezil. Without even having met me, but only on the strength of Barrera’s recommendation, Pezil lent me money to recruit tappers on the upper Vaupés. Later he called off the deal, preferring to recruit the workers himself in Casanare. He’s an audacious fellow. At one point, when I already owed him money, he offered to sell me a bunch of workers at a bargain price. So I’ll go pay what I owe him and see if he’s still selling workers, which are worth their weight in gold, these days, on the Vaupés. Truth is, trading tappers is more profitable than trading the latex itself.” At that point, Zoraida Ayram put her palms on my knees and made an exciting revelation. “Barrera’s workers aren’t worth anything! They’re all starving and sickly. When they first got to the Guainía, they were like a swarm of locusts or a school of piranhas attacking every little hut on the riverbank to carry 200 · The Vortex

away chickens, pigs, manioc, anything edible. At some places, Barrera’s guards had to fire shots in the air and force the people back on board his vessels at gunpoint. Pezil picked up a few at San Marcelino. Several of the Colombian women were sick, and he gave me one of them at a bargain price.” “What is her name?” “I don’t know. Is it important?” “Yes . . . well, no. But if she were here, I’d talk to her. First, I’d like to find out more about the Colombians who came with Barrera. Second, I’d tell her that she must be very, very discreet.” “Discreet about what? Why?” “I don’t tell secrets to people who don’t trust me.” “Tell me! Come on! When did I ever keep a secret from you?” This was the moment. “Zoraida, I want to be generous with the woman who has made me the sensual gift of herself.” “Yes, darling.” “And I don’t want you to make a costly mistake because of your confidence in me.” “No, darling.” “But, Zoraida, the whole camp knows that at night your people are loading Cayenne’s rubber on a boat that you have secretly moored nearby.” “What? Lies! Lies from your hateful friends!” “A woman named Griselda has written to my friends.” “Telling them lies!” “And she’s written to Cayenne, too, telling him what’s happened.” “Liars! Your friends and you and her, too! You’re all in on it!” “And some tappers have discovered the secret mooring place of your pirate vessel!” “Oh, God, what can I do? I’m being robbed!” Refusing the hand that she reached out to me, I turned and left the hut, repeating her refrain with sardonic scorn: “Lies, all lies . . . really?”

I’ve just talked with Váquiro, lying collapsed in his hammock in an alcoholic fog. Bottles litter the dirt floor, stinking of tar—a sure sign that they were recently unloaded from a ship’s hold. This is the work of Zoraida Ayram. Part Three · 201

Ramiro Estévanez noticed that the general and the madonna had become suddenly intimate when he heard them speaking to one another with honeyed tongues in the storage hut: “my dear woman” this and “my good general” that. By order of the latter, Ramiro went to call me, saying that the disappearance of my friends has roiled the entire camp. I found Váquiro, hiccupping and drooling, at best semiconscious. Periodically, he dozed off and then, upon awaking, asked for more liquor, the only thing that he allowed to pass his lips. “Don’t give him any more,” I told Ramiro. “This stuff is going to finish him.” For which comment the demented general, skewering me with his insane little eyes, scolded me roundly. “What do you care? Enough of your bullshit. Enough!” “General, I respectfully request that I be given an opportunity to explain—” “No! No, opportunities! I’m taking you prisoner. Bring me your friends, right now, or you’re under arrest!” So it turns out that, when Petardo Lesmes disappeared from camp weeks ago, he was actually going to look for Cayenne. And Cayenne is now expected here shortly, to deal with the suspicions that surround me and my friends. “What sort of suspicions?” I asked in false amazement. “Apparently that scoundrel Petardo is slandering me because of my outspoken loyalty to General Vácares. In that case, I accept the consequences! Nobody can stop me from proclaiming to the four winds that he is a noble warrior, a man of the sword. And the sword will always prevail over the pen, here, and the world over!” Váquiro rose from his hammock, as if it were ­spring-­loaded. “You have a point!” “It would appear,” I added, “that some have misinterpreted my loyalty to the general as a challenge to Cayenne. If so, the fault lies not in my words but in the poor understanding of my listeners. If I have sent my friends to tap rubber with whatever crew they like, it is because I prefer not to see them idle. How much better that they contribute with their labor to recognize and, in their humble way, offer recompense for the generous protection that we—and I include my compatriot and old friend Ramiro—have received here. Doubt not that their earnings will be put in your hands, General. My fault was merely not to have clarified our intentions and secured permission in advance.” “You have a point.” 202 · The Vortex

“Perhaps the general’s suspicions are thanks to you, Zoraida! Didn’t you try to catch me lying with crafty questions about the streets and plazas of Manaus? You have become entangled in the web of your own mistrust, woman, because I never claimed to have been in Manaus! One need not visit Manaus to become an associate of the Casa Rosas, or at least, I had no need to do so. My qualification was superior: nomination by the Colombian consul, the same consul who, today, is already on his way here—yes, here— with important official business to attend to, involving certain abuses, as he tells me in his most recent letter.” “The Colombian consul!” said Váquiro and the madonna with one voice. “Yes, the consul, my personal friend, who, upon hearing that I was traveling to San Fernando de Atabapo, recommended that I surreptitiously gather information regarding the abuses committed by Funes in Colombia.” And with that, I puffed my chest, lifted my nose in the air, and marched out of the hut, leaving Váquiro and the madonna to burble like idiots: “The consul is coming! His friend!”

“This stuff about Funes,” Váquiro asked urgently, “is it bad for me?” “Not if you didn’t take part in the events of May 8.” “I didn’t, of my own free will.” Zoraida interrupted: “Can your friend the consul help me get what I’m owed? Tell him about me. Tell him that Cayenne has reneged on his debt to me, and that he went away specifically in order not to pay me.” “Wasn’t that Cayenne’s rubber that you took from the storage hut?” “It’s close to worthless. It looks great on the outside, a nice, polished ball of black gold. Cut it open, and who knows what you’ll find—sand, rags, all kinds of trash. Put it in the water, and it sinks! So you tell me what kind of quality it represents. I could show it to the consul.” “If he were here.” “Isn’t he coming?” “Oh, yes, he’s coming. In fact, he’s already in Yaguarí. That woman called Griselda says all sorts of things in her letters. We must talk to her.” “Careful about her. She can be dangerous. She and that other woman sliced up poor Barrera’s face.” “Poor Barrera’s face?” “That’s why I don’t like her around.” Part Three · 203

“We’ve got to question her immediately.” “You really want to?” “Yes!” So Griselda came.

Never again will I feel such suffocatingly breathless anticipation as I felt that afternoon, at dusk, when the madonna Zoraida Ayram hung a lantern in the doorway of her hut facing the river. It was the prearranged signal. Its trembling reflections played across the glassy waters of the Isana, inviting the approach of her riverboat with its crew assembled on the prow. Just when did the madonna let herself become convinced that we should flee together? I can’t be certain. My head was glowing like the lamp hanging in the doorway, emitting rays like the strobe light atop a lighthouse. “She and that other woman sliced up poor Barrera’s face.” The sentence buzzed and throbbed in my ears, setting off fireworks in my mind’s eye. Who was that other woman? Was her motive jealousy? Was it revenge? The desire to escape? Alicia! Was the other woman Alicia? Which of the two woman had begun—with her weak, feminine hand—the bloody job that my more powerful, masculine hand must finish? And I glimpsed a face behind the fireworks in my mind’s eye, or rather, not exactly a face but a jaw laughing by itself. It was Millán’s jaw, as it dangled after his encounter with the bull, but it was Barrera’s laugh. Yes, Barrera’s laugh! I drank and drank, without getting drunk. Somehow, my nerves resisted the alcohol’s effects. I grabbed Váquiro’s glass out of his hand and drained it, noticing the lamp’s livid reflections in the glass itself. The color of a knife blade, it occurred to me. Impatient for the boat’s arrival, I walked down to the riverbank and examined the sky. It was almost midnight, to judge by the stars’ lazy progress. Váquiro wobbled after me everywhere I went, peppering me with commentaries: Yes, he had given Zoraida the rubber in the storage hut, being confident that I would pay for it. “That’s fine.” Zoraida had sent Petardo Lesmes to stop Clemente Silva’s canoe at the Santa Barbara rapids, but old Compass had gotten through! “Really? Really?” He assured me that when Cayenne noticed his empty storage hut, Zoraida was going to be accused of grand larceny. 204 · The Vortex

“That’s to be expected.” And if I thought she might take off, I could station some men on the lower river, unless the consul planned to come up the Guaracú. “Don’t worry. The consul means only to gather intelligence about the operations of that scum Funes in Colombian territory.” So then why did Petardo Lesmes say he’d show proof that I had never been a rubber trader? “Pure slander, General. The consul is my personal friend. That’s all that you need to know.” Leaving the drunk, I went to motivate the madonna. “Zoraida, as soon as my friends get back, you and I are getting out of here.” Yet she resisted. “Are you sure you haven’t gotten me in trouble with Cayenne? Are you sure that you love me?” “Of course!” Sweeping her into my arms, I embraced her so tightly that she emitted a little cry. And as I gazed at her through hallucinating eyes, the face of the woman faded away, leaving only the lascivious breast that Luciano Silva bathed in blood. The night was purple and the camp quiet. Ramiro Estévanez, who watched the surface of the water carefully all night, alerted us that branches had started coming downriver. The boat in the hidden mooring upriver was probably sending signals. The news had a marked physical impact on me. The soles of my feet turned cold, my pulse slowed, and I felt a vague sense of repose that filled me with indolence, despite the sudden fever that burned my skin. Should I get excited because some hussy was about to arrive? Not likely! I hadn’t the slightest interest in seeing her, nor in hearing news of anyone else. If she wanted my protection, let her come beg for it. I wrapped myself in a psychic cape of ironic disdain. “I’m not going to the riverbank, Zoraida. If you insist that I interrogate your servant, it has to be in this hut, and in private.” Minutes later, when I heard the two women coming a short distance away, I decided to adjust the wick of the lamp hanging in the doorway. I took a couple of steps and discovered that my right foot had gone to sleep. I felt as if ants were swarming over the skin of my paralyzed foot. There was Griselda. I stepped on the ground without feeling the ground. Noticing my difficulty, Griselda ran toward me. But I stopped her cold with an imperious gesture (for the madonna’s benefit) and said simply: “Hello.” Part Three · 205

Today I write these pages on the Río Negro, an enigmatic river of waters so transparent that, from the surface, they appear black. The native people call it the Guainía. It is now three weeks since we fled the Guaracú in the madonna’s riverboat. As I survey the dark waves of this great waterway, where Clemente Silva’s canoe successfully evaded enormous whirlpools, observing the landscape where my compatriots still languish practically in slavery, I recall the turbulent events that preceded our escape, events that obliged me to leave a trail of blood behind me. I envision Griselda—woman of saucy words and energetic spirit—as she looked that night, trying to smile amid her tears. Affection and anger swell in equal measures when I think about that woman who never blanches in the face of danger. Fortunately, she knew how to disarm my stupid ire that night, as we stood face-­to-­face, alone, in Zoraida’s hut. “Hello,” I said a second time. And then, after a short silence, I turned as if about to end the interview. “Not so fast, city boy. They brought me here to talk to you.” “To me? What on earth about? Are you here to tell me how things are going since you left Fidel Franco?” “Same for me as for you, I reckon. Could be better, could be worse!” “And how’s that project of yours? Cooked a lot of good food for the rubber tappers, have you? I’d like a sample.” “I normally don’t trade on credit,” she smiled a bit wanly, wiping her eyes, “but seeing as how you’re down on your luck, I’ll see what I can do!” While her eyes were still behind the handkerchief, I asked: “Did Barrera teach you how to cry?” “Teach me how? No, I’ve had plenty of lessons.” She looked at me, and we both thought about that time when I touched her at La Maporita. She smiled and intended to laugh, but sobs came out instead, and she fell at my feet, saying: “Stop making fun of me. We’re both in big trouble.” Experiencing a hint of satisfaction at her distress and surrender, I bent down, somewhat mechanically, to help her up. Her pain had neutralized my resentment, and yet, when I was about to speak, pride rose to take the place of resentment, and I bit my tongue. Should I ask about Alicia? Her whereabouts? No! A thousand times, no! So, in a mumbling but honorable way, I showed no interest whatsoever in that woman’s destiny. Nonethe206 · The Vortex

less, I suppose that I must have asked some question unconsciously, because Griselda’s sobs turned into tearful laughter, and she replied: “And who are you referring to? To your girlfriend Clarita?” “Well . . . yes.” “Yes? Then I’ve got very bad news for you, because she’s with Colonel Funes now. Barrera gave her to him in payment for free transit of the Orinoco and the Casiquiare Rivers. She cried, and the rest of us did, too, but they piled her in a canoe with a couple of paddlers and some letters and presents for Funes, and off she went to San Fernando de Atabapo. She didn’t even get to take her clothes.” “And what about the other women? Which of them cut Barrera’s face?” “Ah . . . so you finally ask about Alicia! You and Clarita were together at Hato Grande, though. Better admit it, because we heard all about it!” “Never! Did that dirty bastard Barrera—” “Tell us all about it? Of course he did! He went personally to tell us and then sent Mauco back every night with an update! Clarita was in your hammock all the time. That’s what we heard, and you were taking her to Venezuela and such. Something like that! Can you say Alicia didn’t have reason to give up on you? That’s why she came to the jungle. That’s why she brought me, too, because I was up in the air. Fidel was tired of me. He wanted to be free of me, and he let me know it.” “Don’t expect me to believe you. Everybody gets what they’ve got coming. You can’t blame it all on Barrera. What about your midnight meetings with him?” “You judge me like that because of our flirtation. That was my fault, but I’ve more than paid for it. I needed help from somewhere, and Alicia was planning to return to Bogotá with don Rafael, so you were a temptation, let’s say.” She smiled again, then looked at the floor. “But I’ve never cheated on Franco. Never, never, never.” “How about that night with his captain?” “That was a nightmare. Don’t remind me of it. The captain was out of bounds, but I didn’t want him to die for anybody’s silly honor. And then I had to endure the torture of seeing my man miserable, repentant, not loving me anymore—the way he’d leave La Maporita and go away for days and weeks, so as not to see me or touch me. And he was always talking about going far, far away, where nobody knew him and he wouldn’t have to work punching cattle and risking his life with the bulls. And that’s when Barrera showed up, and Fidel practically pushed me into his arms. But I stalled until Part Three · 207

Barrera got disgusted. He said I had to pay him back for all the gifts he’d given me, and I had no money, so he threatened to have Fidel arrested for nonpayment of my debt. That’s what we were talking about that time, at midnight!” “Ah, so you bought off Barrera by delivering Alicia to him!” “Don’t talk trash. I gave Barrera everything that belonged to me—my scissors, my earrings—I even tried to sell my sewing machine in order to pay him. He kept saying that a rich fellow like you could lend me the money. Alicia heard me crying at night, and she offered to talk to Barrera, asking him at least to accept a smaller sum. That’s when you started acting crazy, went to Hato Grande, and took up with Clarita. Then Barrera told me that Franco was never coming back because of what you were saying about me. He said that Franco might even hurt me. So, Alicia and I, just the two of us, decided to find a new life for ourselves in the rubber fields.” “When the wind changes, you just got to let it blow.” “Yeah, I’m sorry I said that. Remember when it was. And anyway, just look at that wind blow! It’s about to blow us all away.” She started to cry again, and I felt a great tenderness toward her as I inquired: “Where’s Alicia?” “After the fight with Barrera, they separated us right away, and then they sold me. She must still be in Brazil, in Jaguanari. Fortunately, I had time to teach her a thing or two first. I stayed right with her on the whole trip out. If either of us went ashore, we both went ashore. If we slept on the riverbank, we slept back to back, under the same blanket. Barrera didn’t like it one bit, though. One night when we were aboard the riverboat, he uncorked a bottle and tried to get us both drunk. When we wouldn’t drink, he had the crew put me ashore, and he jumped on Alicia. That’s when she grabbed the bottle by the neck, shattered the bottom of it against the hull, and opened up the bastard’s face in eight places.” When Griselda had finished her tale, I saw that I had broken all my fingernails trying to stab my fingers, like daggers, into the table top. That’s when I noticed that I had lost feeling in my right hand. Eight places! Eight places! With fiery eyes I gazed around the room, to find the bastard and gobble him up like a wild beast. Griselda begged me to calm down: “Don’t worry. We’ll go find her in Jaguanari. She is a good woman. They can’t have sold her, either, because she can’t work being so pregnant.” I remember little after hearing those words, only the faraway echo of a voice like Griselda’s, that said: 208 · The Vortex

“Let’s go! Let’s go! Fidel and Helí are already aboard Zoraida’s boat. We’re all friends now!”

I must have emitted some very alarming sounds, because at that point Ramiro Estévanez and the madonna burst into the hut. “What’s going on? What’s going on?” And Griselda, seeing me incapable of speech, repeated: “Let’s get out of here! Cayenne could get here any minute.” Zoraida began to throw her things together, barking occasional commands at her servant. Ramiro, disconcerted, came to take my pulse. In just a few minutes, the women had assembled several bundles, and the madonna, from beneath her broad hat, asked me: “Do you want to take anything with you?” With difficulty, I pointed to the repurposed account book lying open on the table, the book where the first parts of this very story were already scribbled on these very pages. All that I could manage to say, however, was: “That book. That book.” Griselda took it, and the madonna continued: “So, tell me! Did you clarify those accounts that I had with Cayenne? All ready to show the consul, with dates and amounts? You saw that Barrera still owes me, too? That’s why he tries to buy me with presents of cheap earrings. By the way, what did the servant have to say? Come on, let’s go! Cayenne scares me.” Ramiro made a gesture of warning. “Váquiro’s awake.” I can’t describe what I was experiencing at that instant. I felt simultaneously alive and dead. My left side was perfect, and my right side was not there, or rather, not mine. I couldn’t feel my right arm or leg, although they remained attached, the way a dead limb remains attached to a tree trunk—something false, encumbering, and horrible. Yet my thoughts were perfectly lucid. Was I hallucinating? Impossible! Could it be another cataleptic dream, such as the one I had while lying on the roots of that forest giant? It wasn’t that, either. I spoke, heard my own voice, saw that others could also hear it. But I felt as if rooted to the ground. My right leg had become swollen, spongy, and deformed like the trunk of certain palm trees. Hot, petrifying sap flowed up from the roots. I tried to take a step, and the floor refused to release me. I cried out in surprise, tumbled, and fell. Part Three · 209

Ramiro bent over me quickly. “Let me bleed you.” “It’s hemiplegia,” I insisted. “No! It’s the beginnings of beriberi.”

All night I cried, with no other company than the faithful Ramiro, who sat beside my hammock without saying a word. The cool breath of dawn restored my body, and my fever escaped with the blood that Ramiro extracted from a small incision in my arm. I tried to walk and found myself only somewhat able to do so. My swollen leg dragged along the ground and threw me off balance. Now I understood the madness of the tappers whom beriberi drives to seize a hatchet and amputate their own unresponsive flesh and die of gangrene. “Nobody’s leaving,” insisted Váquiro, who was arguing with the madonna in the next hut. “I won’t allow it. I might be drunk, but I still know what’s going on.” “Do you hear that?” Ramiro was saying, “It’s not a good time to try to escape. I’m not going to try, at least.” “You’re kidding! You’re going to stay here, enchained by your own lack of courage?” “Lack of courage? I suppose so. But too much of some other things, like failure and disappointment, also plenty of reflection, maybe too much of that, too.” “Don’t you want to be free?” “Freedom didn’t make me happy. How can I return home a poor, sick failure? The world is not kind to those who go away to seek their fortunes and return as beggars. At least, around here, nobody knows my story, so I can tell it any way I like. Here, accidental poverty can masquerade as intentional asceticism. Go without me. You and I are made of different stuff. We can’t walk the same road. If you ever see my parents, please don’t tell them where I am. Let forgetfulness be the shroud of him who cannot forget.”

“Why are they shouting?” I asked Ramiro when he returned at dawn. “They’re arguing about the rubber that’s missing from the storage hut. Váquiro says that over a hundred and fifty arrobas were removed without his permission, and the madonna is saying that you will explain everything.” 210 · The Vortex

“What should I do, Ramiro?” “It’s a terrible complication.” “Let’s tell the madonna to return the rubber, and we’ll get out of here! Or, no . . . let’s take Váquiro prisoner! Go get Fidel and Helí and tell them to bring their Winchesters. They’re on the madonna’s boat.” “Her boat is moored on the opposite bank.” “What should I do, Ramiro?” “Wait. Let’s wait until Váquiro sleeps the siesta.” “You have to come with me, though. We’ll lose ourselves in Brazil, where nobody knows us or wants to persecute us. We’ll do good honest work, along with our friends. I’ll live happily with Alicia. She’s a good woman. I was her downfall, so I will be her salvation. I don’t care who thinks we’re living ‘in sin,’ as you might say, Ramiro. She is going to be a mother, and maternity is a sanctifying miracle that resets the moral compass in every generation. Forget what I said about her when I was so angry and so wounded. Come with me, and you’ll see me embrace Alicia over the dead body of my rival. We’re going to find her in Jaguanari! She can’t have been sold, because she’s pregnant. So my son is taking prenatal care of his mother!” Then Ramiro saw or heard something and, suddenly shaken, ran away, exclaiming: “Cayenne’s here! Cayenne’s here!”

I still shudder at the vision of that ruddy, r­ ound-­faced demon with dangling mustachios grabbing poor General Vácares by the shirt collar and forcing his face into the dirt while giving order for his torture. “God damn him! Hang him by his feet and make a fire under him,” said Cayenne, chewing on his r-­sounds, “Why didn’t you all obey my orders? Who sent that canoe to Manaus?” As men tied Váquiro and hauled him into the air, the demon wheeled and roared at the madonna, snatching her hat from her head: “Take your hat off to me, disgusting tart! What are you doing here, anyway? Didn’t I prove that I owe you nothing? Where is the rubber that you stole from me?” The madonna simply pointed, and the foreigner came at me. “Bandit! Don’t talk to me sitting down. On your feet! Where are your two pals?” Part Three · 211

I tried to stand up to face him, but I couldn’t because of my swollen leg. So Cayenne kicked and whipped me, calling me a bandit ally of the “Indian Funes,” until I collapsed on the floor and lost consciousness. When I finally was able to sit up, covered with blood, I could hear that Cayenne was examining the storage huts. The rubber tappers of Guaracú had gathered to see the string of Indian prisoners brought to augment Cayenne’s crews. The ropes around the Indians’ wrists had not been removed for so long that worms were burrowing into their flesh underneath. Petardo Lesmes strode about giving orders to the various overseers who were examining them. Then there was a fuss, and I saw Lesmes separate one of the prisoners from the group and lead him toward me by his tied hands. It was none other than Pipa, who had abandoned us many weeks earlier, and who was now going to identify me, according to instructions that he had received from Petardo. Walking up to where I sat on the ground, he put his filthy foot on my chest and screamed: “Here is the spy from San Fernando de Atabapo, sent by Funes!” “And you,” said one of the overseers to Pipa, “are the animal who used to beat me at La Chorrera, the one who killed Indians for fun with poisoned fingernails. Let me see your fingernails!” He pulled Pipa around the camp by his tied hands as the workers hooted and jeered. Then he cut the hands off with a single blow of his machete, and swung them, still tied together, into the underbrush. Pipa jumped up as if to pursue his hands, but he ran in the wrong direction, waving the stumps around his head, like sprinklers in some nightmare garden. Cayenne emerged from the last storage hut, and everyone fell silent. “Hey Colombia, where’s my rubber? Give it back. No? Let’s go find your friends.” As they dumped me into the canoe and we crossed to where the riverboat was moored, I saw my old friend Ramiro Estévanez and the madonna Zoraida Ayram for the last time, standing at the water’s edge, tearful, tremulous, and horrified.

Griselda met us as we climbed aboard and, seeing my contusions, guessed what had happened. Cayenne, putting out his pipe on the sole of his shoe, seemed assailed by suspicions, because he told the paddlers of the canoe to pull the madonna’s riverboat closer to shore. Our dogs barked loudly on deck. 212 · The Vortex

“Woman,” I said roughly, “chain those dogs up, because this gentleman is going to search the cargo.” “Tell the gentleman that what’s here is only imported merchandise. The rubber is all hidden underwater, upstream. If the gentleman wants, I’ll show him where.” Cayenne leapt to the prow of the vessel and, as soon as I managed to clamber aboard, gave orders to untie and shove off. He asked Griselda: “How many are on board? Where are the other two troublemakers?” “It’s just me with the two Indian paddlers and a third for the rudder.” The demon shouted to his men in the canoe: “Men, go back and bring carriers, lots of them!” Meanwhile, the riverboat had begun to slip silently downstream. Griselda got in front of Cayenne and rattled on to distract him from examining the cargo. Franco and Helí were hiding among the boxes and bundles only a few feet away, imperfectly covered by a piece of burlap that left their feet visible. A rivulet of sweat, icy as death, crossed my temple. Cayenne took one look and, cocking his revolver, went toward my friends. “Sir,” I babbled, “they are incapacitated with fever!” The monster leaned down to uncover them, and quick as a flash, Fidel grabbed the revolver with both hands as Helí wrapped his arms around the man’s waist. I laid hold of Cayenne also, but the former convict was able to squirm loose from our grip and dive into the river. Griselda managed to hit his head with a paddle as he went overboard, and the dogs went after him. The demon was holding his breath somewhere underwater. We held our carbines at the ready. “Look, he’s holding onto the rudder!” One, two, ten shots. Cayenne floated on the water unmoving, as if dead. “He’s not dead. Don’t let him get away!” More shots. The dogs swam in his direction and the head disappeared, then surfaced farther away in an unexpected direction, confusing the dogs. “Don’t let him get his breath!” More shots. The fugitive managed to stay ahead of the dogs for a while, but not forever. Griselda’s paddle and a bullet or two finally did their work, and we saw Charlemagne towing the body toward the riverbank by what appeared to be an unraveling intestine. Good riddance to a foreign invader who came to enslave my compatriots, cut down our trees, slaughter our Indians, and steal our rubber. And now to descend the Vaupés to the Río Negro and rescue our compatriots from Barrera’s clutches in Brazil. Part Three · 213

On Sunday, already in Brazil, we approached the village of São Joaquim, where the Vaupés flows into the Río Negro. The people of the village refused to let us disembark. They thought we looked sick, knew we were hungry, and feared that we’d steal all their chickens and manioc. Mixing Portuguese and Spanish, the mayor ordered us to continue our journey, and, gathering on the riverbank, women, children, and old men threatened us with brooms, sticks, and carbines: “No Colombians! No Colombians!” And they called down the judgment of heaven on Barrera, who had brought the scourge of a Colombian presence to that part of Brazil. At São Gabriel, a more substantial Brazilian town built beside the major rapids that interrupt the Río Negro, we were unable to negotiate the white water and had to relinquish our boat. Fortunately, the town’s apostolic prefect, Monsignor Masa, took pity on us and offered to let us use the mission’s motor launch as far as Umarituba. He also gave us news that gladdened our hearts. Don Clemente had passed through on his way to Manaus a long time previously. And the Colombian consul in Manaus had responded to our call! In just a week he was scheduled to ascend the Río Negro on the steamer Inca, which makes a regular run between Manaus and Santa Isabel.

Umarituba was wonderful! Our contact João Castanheira Fontes proved himself a fine fellow. Not content to supply us with clothes, mosquito nets, and provisions, he also gave us a canoe for the trip to Jaguanari. We’ve continued down the Río Negro, radiant with hope, trembling with eagerness. The beriberi has left my leg asleep, numb, as if it were made of rubber. But my spirit is as bright as a flame. I really don’t know what’s going to happen. Today we are passing the mouth of the Río Curí-­curiarí, the river that don Clemente and those tappers from the Yurubaxí were trying to find when they got lost in the jungle that time, and only he survived.

Here we are in Santa Isabel! I left a letter for the consul at the office of the steamship line that operates the Inca, so he’ll be sure to get it. In it, I call upon his patriotic and humanitarian sentiments to help our compatriots 214 · The Vortex

who have become victims of human trafficking, held against their will in a country that is not their own, tinting the precious white sap with their red blood. As I wrote the letter, I said good-­bye to all that I once was, all that I once desired to become. I have the sense that I am reaching the end of the road. I sense that, like the low, but growing, rumble of ­storm-­tossed branches in the night, the whirlwind approaches. Behold the vortex.

A little farther! A little farther, and today we’ll get to Jaguanari! We are paddling as fast as humanly possible because we’ve heard that my rival has booked passage to the town of Barcelos. He might decide to take Alicia with him. The river divides here into various enormous arms whose currents embrace many islands. On the island to our right, I can see the hut of the workers who are sick and being isolated in quarantine. Behind that island is the mouth of the Yurubaxí. “Catire, watch out, some overseer might recognize you. Here, carry my pistol. And get ready, because we’re almost there.”

I write now at Manuel Cardoso’s camp, where we are waiting for don Clemente. I did it! I freed my compatriots from their treacherous tormenter. The merchant of death no longer lives. I killed him. Over and over, I replay the scene. I see myself stepping from the canoe onto a bare stretch of ground, with the camp in front. I see sick people gathered, coughing, in the smoke of medicinal fires. They give no useful answer to my agitated questions concerning my rival’s whereabouts. In that moment, I have forgotten to look for Alicia. Griselda, who has not forgotten, has Alicia wrapped around her neck, and I halt without speaking to either of them. I only want to look at Alicia’s belly! I don’t know who told me that Barrera was bathing, but next I found myself running as fast as my game leg could carry me toward the Yurubaxí. There he was, squatting naked on a plank at the water’s edge, peering at a mirror to remove the bandages from his facial wounds. At the sight of me, he jumped toward his clothes to get his gun, but I cut him off. Now began the final, silent, titanic struggle. He was strong, and even though I’m slightly taller, he knocked me over. Convulsively kicking, we rolled in a knot at the water’s edge, twisted toPart Three · 215

gether like serpents, plowing the sand, breathing directly in each other’s face, sometimes him on top, sometimes me. Our feet splashed in the water, then we rolled over his clothes, then back. On the verge of losing consciousness, with a last, supreme effort, I enlarged his wounds with my teeth, and as they began to gush bright red blood, I pushed him into the water to drown him, already considering that I might not have the strength to hold him under. And then I witnessed the most horrible, terrifying, detestable spectacle. Millions of piranhas seemed instantly to sense the bleeding flesh in the water. The water churned with fishy fins and whirled with glinting scales, and even though he moved his arms and defended himself for many seconds, they removed the flesh from his bones with startling speed, like starving chickens pecking kernels from an ear of dried corn. The surface bubbled and darkened, and underneath the ripples one could see the X-­ray outlines of the skeleton emerging as the now-­dead body floated against some reeds and continued to tremble, as if in continuing spasms of grief and horror at its sudden fate. But it was only the piranhas finishing their meal. That’s where he stayed, at least until after I brought Alicia to witness the remains. I lifted her in my arms so that she could see the submerged bones and know that he was really dead. Then we put her, pale and hardly able to walk, into a canoe, with symptoms of an impending miscarriage.

Last night, the little one was born, poor, obscure, and unprotected, and two months premature. His first cries echoed in this inhospitable jungle. But he will live! I will carry him in my canoe for a thousand miles to my own country, also his country. I will be like that tapper whom they talk about, Julio Sánchez, who escaped down the entire length of the Putumayo with his pregnant wife.

Yesterday, what we feared finally did happen. A motor launch from Laranjal came to attack us, shooting as they arrived and asking no questions. We shot back, and they dared not land, but they’ll be back tomorrow. Where’s the consul? We need him now! Franco and Helí are watching on the bluff, because we also have to avoid the canoes of the quarantined workers. I can hear them coughing and calling 216 · The Vortex

for help, hoping that we will deliver them, somehow, from this purgatory. Normally, I’d do anything to rescue my countrymen in distress. Today, however, I simply can’t. Their illness would be a danger to Alicia and to my son.

It has proved impossible to dissuade these people who want me to be their redeemer. I went to talk with them, risking contagion, and they just won’t go away. I’ve told them many times that we have no provisions. If they continue to insist, we’ll have to get away from them somehow. Why don’t they wait in the camp at Jaguanari? The steamer Inca is expected there today, or at the latest, tomorrow.

Yes, the best thing now is for us to get away from here and wait for don Clemente in the jungle. Not very deep in the jungle, though. We’ll improvise a shelter in a place where old Compass will have no difficulty finding us, someplace where there’s palm milk for the baby. We’ve got to make a stretcher to carry Alicia. Franco and Helí can carry her, and Griselda can carry the little food we have. I’ll take the lead, with my tiny firstborn held close to my chest under my poncho. Charlemagne and Dollar will bring up the rear!

Don Clemente: We can’t wait for you here any longer, because the quarantined workers won’t stay away. I’m leaving this book spread out on the table where I know you’ll notice it. I’ve drawn you a little map to show you how to find us. Take good care of this book and put it in the consul’s hands. The story that it tells is our story, the rubber tappers’ desolate saga of abuse and suffering. And there’s so much more that I had no time to write!

Don Clemente: You will find us half an hour’s walk from this structure, along the old path, in the direction of the Marié. If we encounter unexpected difficulties and need to leave that place, I’ll light large fires periodically to let you know our whereabouts. Please come as quickly as you are Part Three · 217

able. We have provisions for only six days. Remember Coutinho and Souza Machado! We need you even more than they did. We’re off, then.

God help us!

218 · The Vortex

Epilogue

The last telegram from our consul in Manaus, regarding the fate of Arturo Cova and his companions, verbatim: “Clemente Silva searched unsuccessfully for five months finding no trace whatsoever. The jungle devoured them.”

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