small town.
As we freed the canvas, it began to topple onto us. At a certain moment, the figure of the naked woman appeared to be falling right on to Luis, who was tired, fed up, and not particularly pleased at the revelation of dad’s infidelity.
After we had released three of the four sides of the painting, we stopped for a rest. By now it was already five in the afternoon. Luis sat smoking in one of the dusty armchairs. From time to time he came out with a skeptical remark:
“We should have left it here to rot, Miguel. We’re sticking our noses in where we’re not wanted. You shouldn’t poke around in the past like this, should you?”
I sat in the other armchair and said nothing. He went on:
“What happens to someone belongs to his own time; you shouldn’t dig it up again. There’s a reason for it being forgotten. Everybody has to live their own life and leave the dead in peace.”
I reminded him that neither of us had exactly had much of a life of our own. I thought of him going to the supermarket every night after work to buy a chicken breast and a bit of salad, but didn’t mention it.
I was causing Luis to lose his bearings, because he had always fought against Salvatierra’s omnipresence by trying to bury it in time. That was how he built his life. And now here I was forcing him to struggle with it as I did; in other words, scouring that enormity until I discovered its limit.
I peered up at the dangling canvas and, trying to justify myself to Luis to some extent, I said:
“Do you remember the gesture he made in the clinic when we asked him what to do with his painting?”
“He did this,” said Luis, copying the offhand gesture Salvatierra had made.
“Yes, but after that he lifted his finger to his cheek and signed ‘Keep an eye on her,’ pointing to mom.”
“So?”
“At the time I thought he meant ‘Keep an eye on your mother, take care of her.’ Now I think he was saying: ‘Do what you like with the canvas, but keep an eye on mom, don’t let her see the things I painted.’”
“That’s possible ... He wasn’t keen on it all coming to light.”
“OK, but it’s done now. It can’t offend anyone.”
We fell silent so as not to carry on arguing over the same old thing.
“We have to leave it over here on the Uruguayan side,” said Luis, changing the topic. “We can give it to Ibáñez. That way we’ll have at least one roll outside Argentina.”
We set to work again, in a hurry because Aldo, Boris and Hanna would be waiting for us and the barbecue. This last part was the hardest, because of the blisters. I had to wrap a handkerchief round my hand. We freed a section showing the river: empty boats moored in the morning chill; boats clustered in mid-stream, with men in some sort of clandestine meeting; two men fighting on the shore. It was all very mysterious, a bit frightening. We had no idea what we would find next.
Towards the end of this river sequence, a naked black woman appeared, like a lost soul, running away through the persicaria branches and foliage. As we started to lower it, I noticed that this part had been stitched up, with a diagonal repair. It was the slash Fermín Ibáñez had made during the brawl in the shed that night, when I was eleven.
When I told Luis this, he didn’t seem interested, or was too exhausted to reply. He didn’t say a word until we had completely finished our work. Once the whole canvas was on the floor, we rolled it up and pushed it over to a window. It occurred to Luis that we should roll it up again, but with a pole in the middle so we could carry it on our shoulders. We used the branch that had served as a lever. We pushed the canvas out of the window and carried it between us. It weighed as much as a grown man.
34
We reached the river as the sun was setting. Ibáñez was waiting for us. Seeing us arrive, he pulled in some fishing lines and helped us load the canvas onto his boat. We asked him if he could take us across to
As we freed the canvas, it began to topple onto us. At a certain moment, the figure of the naked woman appeared to be falling right on to Luis, who was tired, fed up, and not particularly pleased at the revelation of dad’s infidelity.
After we had released three of the four sides of the painting, we stopped for a rest. By now it was already five in the afternoon. Luis sat smoking in one of the dusty armchairs. From time to time he came out with a skeptical remark:
“We should have left it here to rot, Miguel. We’re sticking our noses in where we’re not wanted. You shouldn’t poke around in the past like this, should you?”
I sat in the other armchair and said nothing. He went on:
“What happens to someone belongs to his own time; you shouldn’t dig it up again. There’s a reason for it being forgotten. Everybody has to live their own life and leave the dead in peace.”
I reminded him that neither of us had exactly had much of a life of our own. I thought of him going to the supermarket every night after work to buy a chicken breast and a bit of salad, but didn’t mention it.
I was causing Luis to lose his bearings, because he had always fought against Salvatierra’s omnipresence by trying to bury it in time. That was how he built his life. And now here I was forcing him to struggle with it as I did; in other words, scouring that enormity until I discovered its limit.
I peered up at the dangling canvas and, trying to justify myself to Luis to some extent, I said:
“Do you remember the gesture he made in the clinic when we asked him what to do with his painting?”
“He did this,” said Luis, copying the offhand gesture Salvatierra had made.
“Yes, but after that he lifted his finger to his cheek and signed ‘Keep an eye on her,’ pointing to mom.”
“So?”
“At the time I thought he meant ‘Keep an eye on your mother, take care of her.’ Now I think he was saying: ‘Do what you like with the canvas, but keep an eye on mom, don’t let her see the things I painted.’”
“That’s possible ... He wasn’t keen on it all coming to light.”
“OK, but it’s done now. It can’t offend anyone.”
We fell silent so as not to carry on arguing over the same old thing.
“We have to leave it over here on the Uruguayan side,” said Luis, changing the topic. “We can give it to Ibáñez. That way we’ll have at least one roll outside Argentina.”
We set to work again, in a hurry because Aldo, Boris and Hanna would be waiting for us and the barbecue. This last part was the hardest, because of the blisters. I had to wrap a handkerchief round my hand. We freed a section showing the river: empty boats moored in the morning chill; boats clustered in mid-stream, with men in some sort of clandestine meeting; two men fighting on the shore. It was all very mysterious, a bit frightening. We had no idea what we would find next.
Towards the end of this river sequence, a naked black woman appeared, like a lost soul, running away through the persicaria branches and foliage. As we started to lower it, I noticed that this part had been stitched up, with a diagonal repair. It was the slash Fermín Ibáñez had made during the brawl in the shed that night, when I was eleven.
When I told Luis this, he didn’t seem interested, or was too exhausted to reply. He didn’t say a word until we had completely finished our work. Once the whole canvas was on the floor, we rolled it up and pushed it over to a window. It occurred to Luis that we should roll it up again, but with a pole in the middle so we could carry it on our shoulders. We used the branch that had served as a lever. We pushed the canvas out of the window and carried it between us. It weighed as much as a grown man.
34
We reached the river as the sun was setting. Ibáñez was waiting for us. Seeing us arrive, he pulled in some fishing lines and helped us load the canvas onto his boat. We asked him if he could take us across to
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