Book design by Johanna Roebas
www.vintagebooks.com
v1.0
The events and persons mentioned in this story are imagi-nary. The frequent choice of Spanish names is due purely to their music and is not intended to suggest a historic or geographical location of the action.
O n e
The old farmhouse of Mato Rujo stood blankly in the countryside, carved in black against the evening light, the only stain in the empty outline of the plain.
The four men arrived in an old Mercedes. The road was pitted and dry—a poor country road. From the farmhouse, Manuel Roca saw them.
He went to the window. First he saw the column of dust rising against the corn. Then he heard the sound of the engine.
No one had a car anymore, around here. Manuel Roca knew it.
He saw the Mercedes emerge in the distance and disappear behind a line of oaks. Then he stopped looking.
He returned to the table and placed a hand on his daughter’s 3
head. Get up, he told her. He took a key from his pocket, put it on the table, and nodded at his son. Yes, the son said. They were children, just two children.
At the crossroads where the stream ran the old Mercedes did not turn off to the farmhouse but continued toward Álvarez instead.
The four men traveled in silence. The one driving had on a sort of uniform. The other sitting in front wore a cream-colored suit. Pressed. He was smoking a French cigarette. Slow down, he said.
Manuel Roca heard the sound fade into the distance toward Álvarez. Who do they think they’re fooling? he thought. He saw his son come back into the room with a gun in his hand and another under his arm. Put them there, he said. Then he turned to his daughter. Come, Nina. Don’t be afraid. Come here.
The well-dressed man put out his cigarette on the dashboard of the Mercedes, then told the one who was driving to stop. This is good, here, he said. And shut off that infernal engine. He heard the slide of the hand brake, like a chain falling into a well. Then 4
nothing. It was as if the countryside had been swallowed up in an unalterable silence.
It would have been better to go straight there, said one of the two sitting in back. Now he’ll have time to run, he said. He had a gun in his hand. He was only a boy. They called him Tito.
He won’t run, said the well-dressed man. He’s had it with running. Let’s go.
Manuel Roca moved aside some baskets of fruit, bent over, raised a hidden trapdoor, and looked inside. It was little more than a big hole dug into the earth, like the den of an animal.
“Listen to me, Nina. Now, some people are coming, and I don’t want them to see you. You have to hide in here, the best thing is for you to hide in here and wait until they go away. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You just have to stay here and be quiet.”
“ . . . ”
“Whatever happens, you mustn’t come out, you mustn’t move, just stay here, be quiet, and wait.”
“ . . . ”
5
“Everything will be all right.”
“Yes.”
“Listen to me. It’s possible I may have to go away with these men. Don’t come out until your brother comes to get you, do you understand? Or until you can tell that no one is there and it’s all over.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to wait until there’s no one there.”
“ . . . ”
“Don’t be afraid, Nina, nothing’s going to happen to you. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a kiss.”
The girl pressed her lips against her father’s forehead. He caressed her hair.
“Everything will be all right, Nina.”
He remained standing there, as if there were still something he had to say, or do.
“This isn’t what I intended,” he said. “Remember, always, that this is not what I intended.”
6
The child searched instinctively in her father’s eyes for something that might help her understand. She saw nothing. Her father leaned over and kissed her lips.
“Now go, Nina. Go on.”
The child let herself fall into the hole. The earth was hard and dry. She lay
www.vintagebooks.com
v1.0
The events and persons mentioned in this story are imagi-nary. The frequent choice of Spanish names is due purely to their music and is not intended to suggest a historic or geographical location of the action.
O n e
The old farmhouse of Mato Rujo stood blankly in the countryside, carved in black against the evening light, the only stain in the empty outline of the plain.
The four men arrived in an old Mercedes. The road was pitted and dry—a poor country road. From the farmhouse, Manuel Roca saw them.
He went to the window. First he saw the column of dust rising against the corn. Then he heard the sound of the engine.
No one had a car anymore, around here. Manuel Roca knew it.
He saw the Mercedes emerge in the distance and disappear behind a line of oaks. Then he stopped looking.
He returned to the table and placed a hand on his daughter’s 3
head. Get up, he told her. He took a key from his pocket, put it on the table, and nodded at his son. Yes, the son said. They were children, just two children.
At the crossroads where the stream ran the old Mercedes did not turn off to the farmhouse but continued toward Álvarez instead.
The four men traveled in silence. The one driving had on a sort of uniform. The other sitting in front wore a cream-colored suit. Pressed. He was smoking a French cigarette. Slow down, he said.
Manuel Roca heard the sound fade into the distance toward Álvarez. Who do they think they’re fooling? he thought. He saw his son come back into the room with a gun in his hand and another under his arm. Put them there, he said. Then he turned to his daughter. Come, Nina. Don’t be afraid. Come here.
The well-dressed man put out his cigarette on the dashboard of the Mercedes, then told the one who was driving to stop. This is good, here, he said. And shut off that infernal engine. He heard the slide of the hand brake, like a chain falling into a well. Then 4
nothing. It was as if the countryside had been swallowed up in an unalterable silence.
It would have been better to go straight there, said one of the two sitting in back. Now he’ll have time to run, he said. He had a gun in his hand. He was only a boy. They called him Tito.
He won’t run, said the well-dressed man. He’s had it with running. Let’s go.
Manuel Roca moved aside some baskets of fruit, bent over, raised a hidden trapdoor, and looked inside. It was little more than a big hole dug into the earth, like the den of an animal.
“Listen to me, Nina. Now, some people are coming, and I don’t want them to see you. You have to hide in here, the best thing is for you to hide in here and wait until they go away. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You just have to stay here and be quiet.”
“ . . . ”
“Whatever happens, you mustn’t come out, you mustn’t move, just stay here, be quiet, and wait.”
“ . . . ”
5
“Everything will be all right.”
“Yes.”
“Listen to me. It’s possible I may have to go away with these men. Don’t come out until your brother comes to get you, do you understand? Or until you can tell that no one is there and it’s all over.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to wait until there’s no one there.”
“ . . . ”
“Don’t be afraid, Nina, nothing’s going to happen to you. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a kiss.”
The girl pressed her lips against her father’s forehead. He caressed her hair.
“Everything will be all right, Nina.”
He remained standing there, as if there were still something he had to say, or do.
“This isn’t what I intended,” he said. “Remember, always, that this is not what I intended.”
6
The child searched instinctively in her father’s eyes for something that might help her understand. She saw nothing. Her father leaned over and kissed her lips.
“Now go, Nina. Go on.”
The child let herself fall into the hole. The earth was hard and dry. She lay
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