Read Online The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra by Pedro Mairal - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pedro Mairal
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way though, up towards Paysandú.”
“How can I get across?”
“On this side, at Gervasoni’s, beyond the saw mill, there’s a ferry that takes cars across.”
“I didn’t think it was still going ...”
“Yes, they brought it back because people don’t have the money to drive as far as the bridge, because of the price of gas and the tolls.”
“What time does it cross?”
“Oh ... around five, more or less.”
I walked along the riverbank to Gervasoni’s. There was nobody on the quay: it was still early. I pushed into the undergrowth for a few meters and lay down in the shade of an ash tree, the bike beside me. I think I soon dozed off.
I woke an hour later, staring up at the treetop, not knowing what on earth I was doing there. I felt as if I were inside one of those strips of foliage that Salvatierra loved to paint so much: the empty space between trees, the thick undergrowth, with hidden birds; an almost abstract composition he often used as a transition between scenes, as though the eye of the observer were at the height of the birds flying through the woods, full of shadows splashed with light; secret, intimate places where there are no human beings, where the eye gazes as if it were flying without touching the ground, flitting from tree to tree, solitary, in the fastness of the air, the dense greenery of nandubays, carobs, hackberries, ceibas in blossom, surrounded by small birds like scarlet flycatchers, larks, yellow-headed woodpeckers, thrushes, parrots.
I sat up a little and saw a rusty ferry tied up at the quay. It was almost empty. When a Customs inspector had finished checking documents, a car and two motor scooters made their way off the boat, and some men unloaded wooden crates. I went down and asked the person who seemed to be in charge if the ferry was going back across. He told me that if any cars arrived, they might be going. I sat for some time on the quay, staring down at the barely moving waters. The little brown waves lapped against the columns, making the bits of floating rubbish sway to and fro.
Our entire family had crossed on a couple of occasions to go on holiday at La Paloma in Uruguay. When my grandfather died, Salvatierra had spent part of his inheritance on those two or three summers by the sea. We rented a house near the beach. Salvatierra used to take lengths of prepared canvas with him, and paint on the veranda. When he got back, he’d add them to the latest roll. We made the crossing on a ferry that left us in Fray Bentos, and from there we took the train to La Paloma, changing in Montevideo. For me, the holidays always began on board the ferry.
After two hours waiting on Gervasoni’s quay, I felt weary. The river seemed to me too wide, as if I had to swim across. I’d no idea what I was going to do, on my bike, looking for a fisherman who I had heard lived over on the far shore. In the end, the ferry didn’t leave because no cars showed up. I was able to head for home, comforted by the feeling that I had been defeated by insurmountable obstacles rather than by my own weakness. I told myself it was better this way. When my brother arrived, we could take his car and cross by the international bridge.
27
On my way back I saw one of those skies that Salvatierra so loved to paint. One of those deep, shifting, powerful skies. He sometimes painted scattered clouds growing smaller towards the horizon, which gave the sky its true dimension. He could create vast aerial spaces that left you giddy, as if you might plunge headfirst into the canvas. I knew—I had learned—what kind of skies interested him and so some afternoons when I went to the shed after school, I would say, “There’s a good sky outside,” and we would go out to look. It’s something I still do without realizing it, although my father had been dead these many years. I did it that afternoon as I was cycling slowly back to Barrancales: I saw the huge sky, the sky of flatlands, an intense blue with
“How can I get across?”
“On this side, at Gervasoni’s, beyond the saw mill, there’s a ferry that takes cars across.”
“I didn’t think it was still going ...”
“Yes, they brought it back because people don’t have the money to drive as far as the bridge, because of the price of gas and the tolls.”
“What time does it cross?”
“Oh ... around five, more or less.”
I walked along the riverbank to Gervasoni’s. There was nobody on the quay: it was still early. I pushed into the undergrowth for a few meters and lay down in the shade of an ash tree, the bike beside me. I think I soon dozed off.
I woke an hour later, staring up at the treetop, not knowing what on earth I was doing there. I felt as if I were inside one of those strips of foliage that Salvatierra loved to paint so much: the empty space between trees, the thick undergrowth, with hidden birds; an almost abstract composition he often used as a transition between scenes, as though the eye of the observer were at the height of the birds flying through the woods, full of shadows splashed with light; secret, intimate places where there are no human beings, where the eye gazes as if it were flying without touching the ground, flitting from tree to tree, solitary, in the fastness of the air, the dense greenery of nandubays, carobs, hackberries, ceibas in blossom, surrounded by small birds like scarlet flycatchers, larks, yellow-headed woodpeckers, thrushes, parrots.
I sat up a little and saw a rusty ferry tied up at the quay. It was almost empty. When a Customs inspector had finished checking documents, a car and two motor scooters made their way off the boat, and some men unloaded wooden crates. I went down and asked the person who seemed to be in charge if the ferry was going back across. He told me that if any cars arrived, they might be going. I sat for some time on the quay, staring down at the barely moving waters. The little brown waves lapped against the columns, making the bits of floating rubbish sway to and fro.
Our entire family had crossed on a couple of occasions to go on holiday at La Paloma in Uruguay. When my grandfather died, Salvatierra had spent part of his inheritance on those two or three summers by the sea. We rented a house near the beach. Salvatierra used to take lengths of prepared canvas with him, and paint on the veranda. When he got back, he’d add them to the latest roll. We made the crossing on a ferry that left us in Fray Bentos, and from there we took the train to La Paloma, changing in Montevideo. For me, the holidays always began on board the ferry.
After two hours waiting on Gervasoni’s quay, I felt weary. The river seemed to me too wide, as if I had to swim across. I’d no idea what I was going to do, on my bike, looking for a fisherman who I had heard lived over on the far shore. In the end, the ferry didn’t leave because no cars showed up. I was able to head for home, comforted by the feeling that I had been defeated by insurmountable obstacles rather than by my own weakness. I told myself it was better this way. When my brother arrived, we could take his car and cross by the international bridge.
27
On my way back I saw one of those skies that Salvatierra so loved to paint. One of those deep, shifting, powerful skies. He sometimes painted scattered clouds growing smaller towards the horizon, which gave the sky its true dimension. He could create vast aerial spaces that left you giddy, as if you might plunge headfirst into the canvas. I knew—I had learned—what kind of skies interested him and so some afternoons when I went to the shed after school, I would say, “There’s a good sky outside,” and we would go out to look. It’s something I still do without realizing it, although my father had been dead these many years. I did it that afternoon as I was cycling slowly back to Barrancales: I saw the huge sky, the sky of flatlands, an intense blue with
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