fullness is so complete it hurts, like a stone in the belly – when the heart feels squeezed inside the rib cage – he’s thinking only of his life, his life here and now, and his greatest emotion is for this present, wearing thin. His fatigue comes from this. He places his mug down on the white wicker table and goes inside to lie down. He needs to sleep.
WE MIGHT ask how Jacob got wind of the story of a bridge in Coca – we could imagine the murmur of the construction site travelling all the way to him, slipped between the scales of a fugitive trout, hidden beneath the wings of a junco or perched on the petiole of a hardworking ant that made its way right to the heart of the massif via some network of underground tunnels. But really it was just men, always the same ones, who’d come upstream from Coca – people like you and me – bringing the news. These guys trade with the villages of the “interior ,” know how to reach them without danger, branching off into one arm of the river, then another narrower one, and another still, following a path that only they know in the aquatic labyrinth that webs the forest. It’s they who, among other things, bring Jacob his bricks of coffee and his cartons of smokes. And this evening, like every other time, they docked their boat in front of the village houses, unloaded bundles of clothes and blankets, cases of canned goods, batteries, a television and two radios, then went like everyone else over to Jacob, who’d seen them coming and held out mugs to them, lifting a hand in the air – hey guys, come on over, come over here. There are three of them – two brawny guys and a teenager with an orange cap, and they come, shaking hands with “the professo r” – that’s what they call Jacob – then the two older ones give instructions for the transaction, quantities that Jacob translates using categories like a little , a bit more , and a lot , and the Natives start bringing out the baskets – baskets of a rare beauty, woven baskets whose round bellies depict the cosmos, very high-quality baskets. This is when the young one with the orange cap starts talking about the bridge in Coca – soon we won’t be coming anymore, it won’t be worth it, we’ll load up a truck and all this will be done in a day’s work, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail! He has his hands in his pockets, concludes by saying that’ll be faster, huh, we won’t have to sleep outside anymore, and he smiles while kicking at the pine cones that carpet the ground; and Jacob, who has been watching the coffee maker, turns, looks him deep in the eyes and asks softly, controlling his surprise and feigning nonchalance, oh yeah, is that right, they’re building a bridge in Coca? The boy takes the bait and goes on, yeah, an awesome thing, six lanes they say, it’ll give us some breathing room, they’ve already started, they’re planning it out, you’ve gotta see it! Jacob hands him a metal box while a few yards away the men load the baskets into the boat, careful to cover them with plastic tarps, sugar? He speaks so sharply that the boy jumps and takes his hat off quickly, his hair’s ginger, as orange as the fabric of his hat, he splutters, yes, two cubes, and when Jacob hands him his cup, he takes it in one hand, holding it against his chest like a man, and squares his shoulders. The men have finished loading. One of them looks at his watch – a ridiculous gesture in these parts – and says, time to hit the road, let’s go. They want to stop for the night in another village, shaking the professor’s and the Natives’ hands – the youngest doesn’t dare look at Jacob, vaguely aware of having said too much, of having been the bird of ill omen – and hop into their boat that rocks gently. The kids see them off, shouting between branches or clinging onto the hull; the men in the boat don’t pay them any attention, occupied with manoeuvring the boat out, and finally the kids wade back towards the
WE MIGHT ask how Jacob got wind of the story of a bridge in Coca – we could imagine the murmur of the construction site travelling all the way to him, slipped between the scales of a fugitive trout, hidden beneath the wings of a junco or perched on the petiole of a hardworking ant that made its way right to the heart of the massif via some network of underground tunnels. But really it was just men, always the same ones, who’d come upstream from Coca – people like you and me – bringing the news. These guys trade with the villages of the “interior ,” know how to reach them without danger, branching off into one arm of the river, then another narrower one, and another still, following a path that only they know in the aquatic labyrinth that webs the forest. It’s they who, among other things, bring Jacob his bricks of coffee and his cartons of smokes. And this evening, like every other time, they docked their boat in front of the village houses, unloaded bundles of clothes and blankets, cases of canned goods, batteries, a television and two radios, then went like everyone else over to Jacob, who’d seen them coming and held out mugs to them, lifting a hand in the air – hey guys, come on over, come over here. There are three of them – two brawny guys and a teenager with an orange cap, and they come, shaking hands with “the professo r” – that’s what they call Jacob – then the two older ones give instructions for the transaction, quantities that Jacob translates using categories like a little , a bit more , and a lot , and the Natives start bringing out the baskets – baskets of a rare beauty, woven baskets whose round bellies depict the cosmos, very high-quality baskets. This is when the young one with the orange cap starts talking about the bridge in Coca – soon we won’t be coming anymore, it won’t be worth it, we’ll load up a truck and all this will be done in a day’s work, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail! He has his hands in his pockets, concludes by saying that’ll be faster, huh, we won’t have to sleep outside anymore, and he smiles while kicking at the pine cones that carpet the ground; and Jacob, who has been watching the coffee maker, turns, looks him deep in the eyes and asks softly, controlling his surprise and feigning nonchalance, oh yeah, is that right, they’re building a bridge in Coca? The boy takes the bait and goes on, yeah, an awesome thing, six lanes they say, it’ll give us some breathing room, they’ve already started, they’re planning it out, you’ve gotta see it! Jacob hands him a metal box while a few yards away the men load the baskets into the boat, careful to cover them with plastic tarps, sugar? He speaks so sharply that the boy jumps and takes his hat off quickly, his hair’s ginger, as orange as the fabric of his hat, he splutters, yes, two cubes, and when Jacob hands him his cup, he takes it in one hand, holding it against his chest like a man, and squares his shoulders. The men have finished loading. One of them looks at his watch – a ridiculous gesture in these parts – and says, time to hit the road, let’s go. They want to stop for the night in another village, shaking the professor’s and the Natives’ hands – the youngest doesn’t dare look at Jacob, vaguely aware of having said too much, of having been the bird of ill omen – and hop into their boat that rocks gently. The kids see them off, shouting between branches or clinging onto the hull; the men in the boat don’t pay them any attention, occupied with manoeuvring the boat out, and finally the kids wade back towards the
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