copse a dense interlocked mass. I know those thorns, have come too close before. I stare, and the mass flattens into latticework, a myth of geometry, of structure, intricate and beautiful and pointless but then a flaw, a crack in the surface at last: half-buried in the sand at the base of one of the trees is a small smooth chunk of black, its curves wrong for natural stone.
I hunch down, gauge the distance, won’t be able to reach it from here. I pull Mariángel out of the sling and set her in the wispy shade. I take off my knapsack, go onto my stomach, the sand burning my chest as I crawl forward. The branches bend, strain against me, catch at the sling and my clothes, hold me. I reach and a thorn scrapes down my forearm, draws blood. Mariángel screams and I reach again, stretch, one finger, have it, pull back and take her up.
I whisper to my daughter as I look at what I have found: a flat rubber heel. It could be from either a man’s or woman’s shoe, is old and worn and weathered, seems unlikely to be relevant but it is something and therefore sufficient. I tuck it into my knapsack and walk back to the algarrobo grove. I search for a loose stone, find one the size of my fist, carry it to the cairn. I set it in place on top, and turn for the highway.
5.
THE SHEEP RUN TO THE MIDDLE OF THE PASTURE AND STOP. Dog or coyote or mountain lion or nothing. I am a hundred yards away but the moon is full and I can see them clearly.
6.
NAKED AND DAMP AND IMMENSE AND MANY-COLORED, I towel dry and survey the damage. The scrape is infected. I run a bead of cream along it as if caulking a seam. The sunburn is minimal, a single parallelogram on my left arm. The bruise on my hip has eased from purpled black to a blend of browns and greens and the pain is almost gone.
Trousers, collared shirt, tie: the growing heat is irrelevant to the university dress code. Then to the kitchen, where Casualidad has prepared my breakfast and Mariángel’s bottle. I take my daughter, hold her in one arm as I eat. As always she drinks quickly, perhaps more quickly than she should. I ask Casualidad if she seems dehydrated or otherwise unwell, and Casualidad looks, shrugs, says some babies simply drink fast.
When Mariángel is done I set her in her chair and twirl her hair around my fingers. She pulls away and I nod, bring my face in close. She hits me in the head with the empty bottle, throws it and laughs and I think of calling in sick today, every day, waiting to hear that laugh again but now she reaches for Casualidad. I kiss her, pick up my briefcase, turn back, then go.
On the far side of the street, a neighbor is finishing the second floor of her house. Barefoot men carry square metal cans of wet cement. They climb bamboo ladders with the cans balanced on their shoulders, never waver as they climb, never fall. There is a tense sweaty peace about them, and the loose mesh of rebar above has been in place for years. Many houses here are left unfinished in this way, most often to avoid certain taxes.
To the corner and across. A glass-encased statue of the Virgin waits as ever on the overgrown traffic divider. Her peace too is tense though it has nothing to do with builders or with roofs except of course the First Rebellion.
The puppet ruler Manco Inca Yupanqui finally understands that the pillaging and torture and rape will never end unless he ends them. When the rains cease, he sends messengers. By Easter the army is too large to conceal. Most of the Spaniards are off inspecting their lands or on new expeditions. Hernando Pizarro sends out seventy mounted soldiers, Manco harries them back and the siege begins: Cuzco surrounded, the Sacsayhuamán citadel occupied, canals destroyed to flood fields, holes dug and camouflaged to cripple horses. I pull out my handkerchief, wipe my neck and hands. There are the smells of roses and brine and if Manco attacks in force—but instead he waits for more warriors, gives the Spaniards time to
I hunch down, gauge the distance, won’t be able to reach it from here. I pull Mariángel out of the sling and set her in the wispy shade. I take off my knapsack, go onto my stomach, the sand burning my chest as I crawl forward. The branches bend, strain against me, catch at the sling and my clothes, hold me. I reach and a thorn scrapes down my forearm, draws blood. Mariángel screams and I reach again, stretch, one finger, have it, pull back and take her up.
I whisper to my daughter as I look at what I have found: a flat rubber heel. It could be from either a man’s or woman’s shoe, is old and worn and weathered, seems unlikely to be relevant but it is something and therefore sufficient. I tuck it into my knapsack and walk back to the algarrobo grove. I search for a loose stone, find one the size of my fist, carry it to the cairn. I set it in place on top, and turn for the highway.
5.
THE SHEEP RUN TO THE MIDDLE OF THE PASTURE AND STOP. Dog or coyote or mountain lion or nothing. I am a hundred yards away but the moon is full and I can see them clearly.
6.
NAKED AND DAMP AND IMMENSE AND MANY-COLORED, I towel dry and survey the damage. The scrape is infected. I run a bead of cream along it as if caulking a seam. The sunburn is minimal, a single parallelogram on my left arm. The bruise on my hip has eased from purpled black to a blend of browns and greens and the pain is almost gone.
Trousers, collared shirt, tie: the growing heat is irrelevant to the university dress code. Then to the kitchen, where Casualidad has prepared my breakfast and Mariángel’s bottle. I take my daughter, hold her in one arm as I eat. As always she drinks quickly, perhaps more quickly than she should. I ask Casualidad if she seems dehydrated or otherwise unwell, and Casualidad looks, shrugs, says some babies simply drink fast.
When Mariángel is done I set her in her chair and twirl her hair around my fingers. She pulls away and I nod, bring my face in close. She hits me in the head with the empty bottle, throws it and laughs and I think of calling in sick today, every day, waiting to hear that laugh again but now she reaches for Casualidad. I kiss her, pick up my briefcase, turn back, then go.
On the far side of the street, a neighbor is finishing the second floor of her house. Barefoot men carry square metal cans of wet cement. They climb bamboo ladders with the cans balanced on their shoulders, never waver as they climb, never fall. There is a tense sweaty peace about them, and the loose mesh of rebar above has been in place for years. Many houses here are left unfinished in this way, most often to avoid certain taxes.
To the corner and across. A glass-encased statue of the Virgin waits as ever on the overgrown traffic divider. Her peace too is tense though it has nothing to do with builders or with roofs except of course the First Rebellion.
The puppet ruler Manco Inca Yupanqui finally understands that the pillaging and torture and rape will never end unless he ends them. When the rains cease, he sends messengers. By Easter the army is too large to conceal. Most of the Spaniards are off inspecting their lands or on new expeditions. Hernando Pizarro sends out seventy mounted soldiers, Manco harries them back and the siege begins: Cuzco surrounded, the Sacsayhuamán citadel occupied, canals destroyed to flood fields, holes dug and camouflaged to cripple horses. I pull out my handkerchief, wipe my neck and hands. There are the smells of roses and brine and if Manco attacks in force—but instead he waits for more warriors, gives the Spaniards time to
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