Read Online The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra by Pedro Mairal - Free Book Online
Authors: Pedro Mairal
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Ibáñez?”
“No, not Ibáñez,” said the woman, slapping at a mosquito on her forearm.
The kids stared at me with curiosity.
Next to them was the sky blue body of a Fiat 600 that served as a hencoop. There was washing hanging from a line. Not a single flowerbed, flower, or plant. Nothing but trash among the long grass.
I cycled on. The further I went, the more tired I felt. I started to ask myself what I was doing, if I really thought I was going to find what I was looking for. A painting stolen forty years earlier by a guy who most likely burned it or threw it into the river.
I left the track and headed down towards the shore. The slight downwards slope helped me continue despite my skepticism. There was no one at the pétanque court. The plastic chairs and tables were piled up in one corner and the kiosk was closed.
26
I reached the part known as Los Italianos, some meadows that had started out as dairy farms, then become sheep enclosures, and now were camping sites. The road stretched beneath a grove of eucalyptus trees. I saw new shacks that hadn’t been there before, corrugated iron huts, patched-up shelters. A shanty town had sprung up there in recent years.
A young boy jumped out from behind a tree and fired a gun at me. Hearing the report, I was slow to duck down, and lost control of my bike. I landed head first in the grass beside an irrigation ditch. I heard laughter. Several more kids hiding behind the trees ran off. I shouted at them, then looked down at my body. I wasn’t hurt, apart from a graze on my knee. I got up. A young girl carrying an orange plastic bowl full of washing saw me looking round in panic and said, “They’re only blanks.”
I thanked her, and couldn’t help staring after her. In her blue dress and with wet hair, she looked beautiful as she walked away between the rubble-filled potholes and tufts of grass, her flip-flops slapping on the ground. She turned back for a second. I’d like to be able to say she smiled at me, but she didn’t. She simply kept going, and I walked on, pushing my bike.
I found myself getting deeper and deeper into this new shanty town, and so I turned off along a dirt path leading down to the river. Before long through the trees I could see the muddy, tawny-colored water that stretched from here right across to Uruguay, which always used to seem to me so distant and difficult to reach.
There was a path bordering the riverbank. I came across several anglers with fishing rods. At their feet lay chickens they had gutted to use the innards as bait. Flies were clustering on the dead flesh, the buckets, their rubber boots. I asked if they knew someone called Ibáñez, a black fisherman. None of them did.
I reached a spot where there was a slate that said “Parrots for sale,” then another one declaring “El Pajarito Grill.” It wasn’t clear whether the parrots they sold were alive or were on the menu. Then I came to a corrugated iron stall, where a scrawny cook was turning some spicy sausages over a bed of hot coals. I said hello, sat down for a rest, and ate a sausage sandwich with a glass of wine.
For something to say, I asked him how long Los Italianos had been inhabited.
“The shanty?”
“Yes.”
“It must be two or three years. Nowadays, here in Barrancales,” he said, thinking I came from Buenos Aires, “anyone who doesn’t work for the municipality lives in a shanty town.”
“Doesn’t the Town Hall help them in any way?”
“You must be joking! Those thieves even steal the mattresses and clothing people donate.”
I asked him about Ibáñez. He paused while he wiped down the counter with a cloth, then said:
“Ibáñez? There is an Ibáñez, but over on the Uruguayan side.”
“Fermín Ibáñez?”
“Yes. I’m not sure about his first name,” he said. “But he’s a fisherman called Ibáñez.”
“Is he black?”
“Yes ... more like mulatto, in fact.”
“Directly across from here?”
“Yes, a bit out of the
“No, not Ibáñez,” said the woman, slapping at a mosquito on her forearm.
The kids stared at me with curiosity.
Next to them was the sky blue body of a Fiat 600 that served as a hencoop. There was washing hanging from a line. Not a single flowerbed, flower, or plant. Nothing but trash among the long grass.
I cycled on. The further I went, the more tired I felt. I started to ask myself what I was doing, if I really thought I was going to find what I was looking for. A painting stolen forty years earlier by a guy who most likely burned it or threw it into the river.
I left the track and headed down towards the shore. The slight downwards slope helped me continue despite my skepticism. There was no one at the pétanque court. The plastic chairs and tables were piled up in one corner and the kiosk was closed.
26
I reached the part known as Los Italianos, some meadows that had started out as dairy farms, then become sheep enclosures, and now were camping sites. The road stretched beneath a grove of eucalyptus trees. I saw new shacks that hadn’t been there before, corrugated iron huts, patched-up shelters. A shanty town had sprung up there in recent years.
A young boy jumped out from behind a tree and fired a gun at me. Hearing the report, I was slow to duck down, and lost control of my bike. I landed head first in the grass beside an irrigation ditch. I heard laughter. Several more kids hiding behind the trees ran off. I shouted at them, then looked down at my body. I wasn’t hurt, apart from a graze on my knee. I got up. A young girl carrying an orange plastic bowl full of washing saw me looking round in panic and said, “They’re only blanks.”
I thanked her, and couldn’t help staring after her. In her blue dress and with wet hair, she looked beautiful as she walked away between the rubble-filled potholes and tufts of grass, her flip-flops slapping on the ground. She turned back for a second. I’d like to be able to say she smiled at me, but she didn’t. She simply kept going, and I walked on, pushing my bike.
I found myself getting deeper and deeper into this new shanty town, and so I turned off along a dirt path leading down to the river. Before long through the trees I could see the muddy, tawny-colored water that stretched from here right across to Uruguay, which always used to seem to me so distant and difficult to reach.
There was a path bordering the riverbank. I came across several anglers with fishing rods. At their feet lay chickens they had gutted to use the innards as bait. Flies were clustering on the dead flesh, the buckets, their rubber boots. I asked if they knew someone called Ibáñez, a black fisherman. None of them did.
I reached a spot where there was a slate that said “Parrots for sale,” then another one declaring “El Pajarito Grill.” It wasn’t clear whether the parrots they sold were alive or were on the menu. Then I came to a corrugated iron stall, where a scrawny cook was turning some spicy sausages over a bed of hot coals. I said hello, sat down for a rest, and ate a sausage sandwich with a glass of wine.
For something to say, I asked him how long Los Italianos had been inhabited.
“The shanty?”
“Yes.”
“It must be two or three years. Nowadays, here in Barrancales,” he said, thinking I came from Buenos Aires, “anyone who doesn’t work for the municipality lives in a shanty town.”
“Doesn’t the Town Hall help them in any way?”
“You must be joking! Those thieves even steal the mattresses and clothing people donate.”
I asked him about Ibáñez. He paused while he wiped down the counter with a cloth, then said:
“Ibáñez? There is an Ibáñez, but over on the Uruguayan side.”
“Fermín Ibáñez?”
“Yes. I’m not sure about his first name,” he said. “But he’s a fisherman called Ibáñez.”
“Is he black?”
“Yes ... more like mulatto, in fact.”
“Directly across from here?”
“Yes, a bit out of the
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