the other side.
“Yes ... but there’s the Coast Guard,” he said.
“What can they do to us?” I asked.
“Well ... they don’t like people crossing at night ...”
“How much would you charge us?” I asked.
“Fifty.”
Luis took out fifty pesos and gave it to him.
First we went to Ibáñez’s place and left the roll there. We wrapped it in a tarpaulin and covered it with sheets of corrugated iron. Ibáñez helped us without a word. Seeing his willingness to lend a hand, I asked him if he knew of anyone who had a bigger boat, a boat that could ship things across at night, because at most we could take two rolls at a time in his. He gave a rather embarrassed smile and asked what we wanted to get across.
“More rolls like this one,” I told him.
“How many?”
“About sixty.”
He thought about it for a few moments.
“When are you thinking of doing this?”
“Tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”
“When you come, I’ll have something for you.”
We climbed back into his boat. Night was falling slowly. Ibáñez began to row, the prow pointed directly towards the Argentine shore. Every so often he raised his oars and took a rest. To arrive more quickly, we decided to head straight across and then follow the shoreline until reaching the shed. Our guests must be worried. We could walk to our house and come back the next day for the car, which we had left at the Customs quay. All three of us were quiet. The only sounds were the oars, the water slapping against the sides of the boat, and Ibáñez’s breathing. Then the horseflies started to pester us, buzzing round our ears.
On the way we caught sight of a motorboat with powerful searchlights. Ibáñez saw it too, but said nothing. He went on rowing, keeping his rhythm. The boat sped by without paying us any attention.
“That was the Coast Guard,” he said when it had gone. “They’re a real pain in the ass.”
Night drew quickly in, until we could barely make out each other’s faces, only Ibáñez’s dark silhouette against the orange sky. During one of his rests, I asked if he wanted me to row.
“No, I’m fine,” he said, and then seemed to freeze for an instant. I wondered what he could be doing. All of a sudden, his hand shot out and he caught a horsefly that was bothering him in mid-air. He flicked it into the river and went on rowing.
Dumbfounded, I sat there saying nothing, staring at his profile. Who was this man rowing us? I was unnerved and confused. We were in mid-river, with only a few lights twinkling on the far bank.
We headed downstream towards the old jetty.
“Be careful you don’t make any noise or light a cigarette around here. They take potshots at any boats passing nearby.”
“Why’s that?” asked Luis.
“For fun, to practice their shooting,” said Ibáñez. “Lots of drugged kids.”
In the silence we heard a commotion a few blocks away, like a big party, and saw a glow in the sky. A bright patch of light.
We felt the prow of the boat run into sand and jumped out.
“We’ll see you in a few days,” said Luis.
“Have a good time,” said Ibáñez, then began to row off.
He was about to disappear in the darkness when I called out to him:
“Ibáñez?”
“What?”
I tried to see him, but he had been swallowed up by the night. His voice though still seemed close, perhaps because of the strange effect that makes sound skim off smooth water without losing strength.
“Is your mother dead?”
“Yes, a long time ago,” he said out of the shadows.
“Was she black?”
“Yes, she was.”
“And your father?”
“I never knew him.”
“Don’t you know anything about him?”
He didn’t reply for a moment, and then his voice sounded more distant:
“Only that he was mute.”
35
Luis climbed the bank and began to walk quickly away, without looking back. Had he heard what I’d heard?
“Luis,” I called out to him. “Luis!”
I didn’t see him turn round, and only realized
“Yes ... but there’s the Coast Guard,” he said.
“What can they do to us?” I asked.
“Well ... they don’t like people crossing at night ...”
“How much would you charge us?” I asked.
“Fifty.”
Luis took out fifty pesos and gave it to him.
First we went to Ibáñez’s place and left the roll there. We wrapped it in a tarpaulin and covered it with sheets of corrugated iron. Ibáñez helped us without a word. Seeing his willingness to lend a hand, I asked him if he knew of anyone who had a bigger boat, a boat that could ship things across at night, because at most we could take two rolls at a time in his. He gave a rather embarrassed smile and asked what we wanted to get across.
“More rolls like this one,” I told him.
“How many?”
“About sixty.”
He thought about it for a few moments.
“When are you thinking of doing this?”
“Tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”
“When you come, I’ll have something for you.”
We climbed back into his boat. Night was falling slowly. Ibáñez began to row, the prow pointed directly towards the Argentine shore. Every so often he raised his oars and took a rest. To arrive more quickly, we decided to head straight across and then follow the shoreline until reaching the shed. Our guests must be worried. We could walk to our house and come back the next day for the car, which we had left at the Customs quay. All three of us were quiet. The only sounds were the oars, the water slapping against the sides of the boat, and Ibáñez’s breathing. Then the horseflies started to pester us, buzzing round our ears.
On the way we caught sight of a motorboat with powerful searchlights. Ibáñez saw it too, but said nothing. He went on rowing, keeping his rhythm. The boat sped by without paying us any attention.
“That was the Coast Guard,” he said when it had gone. “They’re a real pain in the ass.”
Night drew quickly in, until we could barely make out each other’s faces, only Ibáñez’s dark silhouette against the orange sky. During one of his rests, I asked if he wanted me to row.
“No, I’m fine,” he said, and then seemed to freeze for an instant. I wondered what he could be doing. All of a sudden, his hand shot out and he caught a horsefly that was bothering him in mid-air. He flicked it into the river and went on rowing.
Dumbfounded, I sat there saying nothing, staring at his profile. Who was this man rowing us? I was unnerved and confused. We were in mid-river, with only a few lights twinkling on the far bank.
We headed downstream towards the old jetty.
“Be careful you don’t make any noise or light a cigarette around here. They take potshots at any boats passing nearby.”
“Why’s that?” asked Luis.
“For fun, to practice their shooting,” said Ibáñez. “Lots of drugged kids.”
In the silence we heard a commotion a few blocks away, like a big party, and saw a glow in the sky. A bright patch of light.
We felt the prow of the boat run into sand and jumped out.
“We’ll see you in a few days,” said Luis.
“Have a good time,” said Ibáñez, then began to row off.
He was about to disappear in the darkness when I called out to him:
“Ibáñez?”
“What?”
I tried to see him, but he had been swallowed up by the night. His voice though still seemed close, perhaps because of the strange effect that makes sound skim off smooth water without losing strength.
“Is your mother dead?”
“Yes, a long time ago,” he said out of the shadows.
“Was she black?”
“Yes, she was.”
“And your father?”
“I never knew him.”
“Don’t you know anything about him?”
He didn’t reply for a moment, and then his voice sounded more distant:
“Only that he was mute.”
35
Luis climbed the bank and began to walk quickly away, without looking back. Had he heard what I’d heard?
“Luis,” I called out to him. “Luis!”
I didn’t see him turn round, and only realized
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