I

 

There is no justifying our optimism, no signs give us reason to believe things could get better. Our optimism grows by itself, like a weed, after a kiss, a talk, a good wine, though we have very little of that left. Surrender is like that, too: the poison of defeat springs up and grows during a bad day, with the clarity of a bad day, spurred by little things that, in better circumstances, wouldn’t have hurt us and yet, if the final blow happens to come right when we’re at the end of our strength, manages to annihilate us. Suddenly, something that we wouldn’t even have noticed before destroys us, like a trap laid by a hunter whose skill outpaces our own, a trap we didn’t pay attention to because we were distracted by the lure. And yet, why deny that we ourselves, while we could, hunted in the same way, wielding traps, lures, and grotesque but highly effective camouflage.

Anyone who looks carefully at this house’s garden can easily tell that it’s seen better days, that the drained pool isn’t out of place with the buzz of airplanes that punish us nightly, not only here on this property but throughout the valley. When she comes to bed I try to calm her, but the truth is that I know something is collapsing and we won’t be able to build anything new in its place. Each bomb in this war rips open a hole we won’t be able to fill, I know it and she knows it, although we pretend otherwise when it’s time to go to sleep, searching for a peace we no longer find, for a time like before. On some nights, in order to dream better, we remember.

In that other time, we enjoyed what we thought would be ours forever. The cool waters of the lake—we called it a lake, but it was more like a big pond—not only refreshed us on hot days, but also offered all sorts of games and safe adventures. That last thing, safe adventures, is without a doubt a contradiction we were unaware of at the time.

We had a small rowboat and the boys spent hours in it pretending to be pirates, and sometimes, on summer afternoons, I’d take her out on the water, as we say, and we’d each get lost in our own thoughts, not talking much, but serene.

Yesterday a letter arrived from Augusto, our son, our soldier, and it informs us that a month ago he was still alive, though that doesn’t mean he isn’t dead today. The joy the letter brings us also feeds our fear. Ever since the pulse signals were cut off by the provisional government’s decree, we’ve gone back to waiting for the mail carrier, the way our grandparents did. There is no other form of communication. At least we have month-old news of Augusto, it’s been almost a year since we’ve had word of Pablo. When they left for the front, the pulse signals still kept us constantly in touch with their heartbeats; she said it was almost like having them inside, like when she’d felt them living in her womb. Now we’re forced to dream them into being, in silence. War, for parents, is not the same thing as war for the men who go and fight, it’s a different war. Our only job is to wait. Meanwhile, the garden despairs and dies, worn out. She and I, on the other hand, get up every morning ready and willing.

Our love, in facing this war, is growing stronger.

It’s hard to say now how much we loved each other before; obviously, the kisses at our wedding were sincere, but that sincerity is a part of what we were then, and time has clearly turned us into something else. This very morning, I walked the property to confirm yet again that this place barely resembles what our house used to be. The lake is almost dry; someone, likely the enemy, has dammed the mountain streams. The shores of the lake, once as green as the jungle, are withering.

War doesn’t change anything on its own, it only reminds us, with its noise, that everything changes.

And despite the war—or thanks to the war—we carry on, good morning, good night, one day after another, just like that, one kiss after another, against all logic. The water boils, the heirloom teapot with its crocheted cozy, the last tea bags . . . the little we have left boils, is protected, goes on. Something dies and lives between us, something nameless that we decide, for good reason, to ignore. Passion either ignores misfortune or dies. We’ve made choices; one of them is not to be alone. To love is to defy any devil that tells us it’s possible not to love.

Luckily, faced with the devil, the things that are close to us multiply.

I can talk about her hands because I know them, because they’re near me. Nothing can be said about what’s too far away. The boy cries in the basement, and he isn’t our son but we try to care for him as best we can. We like having something to care for, on that at least we agree, despite the garden’s premature death. The child arrived in the summer, more than six months ago, we don’t know his age although we think he’s about nine years old, we’ve had children and their various heights are marked in pencil on the wall of their old bedroom. We used these measurements of our own children to estimate this stranger’s age, though we know it’s not a precise calculation. Nor is he our son, this boy we’re measuring now, but he showed up here alone and we take care of him.

He was wounded when he arrived, which was part of why we started caring for him. We’re not virtuous, I know, but that makes us less merciless. Also, since our own sons left home, we’ve had plenty of space. We hide him in the basement because we still haven’t decided what to do with him. War takes many things away and at the same time offers possibilities, which we weren’t used to having, and for that reason we put off saying yes or no to the options that present themselves. People who are prepared have no fear, but we do, or at least I do—I wouldn’t dare speak for her. Fear is personal, to each their own. In any case, we don’t believe we’ve stolen a child, but prefer to believe we’ve taken him in.

The boy, for his part, still hasn’t said a word. His silence both unsettles and consoles us, we wait for his first word and we fear it.

And what if the first thing he says isn’t thank you?

What will we do with him then?

Sometimes he cries at night as we fuck, but we don’t stop, in the old days we also managed to fuck despite the cries of our own children. We aren’t crazy, that’s how people conceive. It’s the natural course of things. Life doesn’t threaten life, but stimulates it. Yesterday I gave our prisoner a chess set; we call him that, prisoner, because we haven’t given him a name, but his door has no lock. He could leave if he wanted to, just as he came here because he wanted to. Yet, he stays. I suppose the will that brought him here is the same will that keeps him here. We, in turn, feed him well from the little we have. He doesn’t like bananas, that much we know, he’s no monkey. Potatoes with sausage drives him wild, he’s got a great temperament, he licks his fingers with gusto. It’s satisfying to watch a child eat, even if he isn’t your own.

He strikes us as a good kid, though we don’t know where the hell he comes from. If all goes smoothly and he behaves himself, maybe we’ll move him upstairs one day, to our sons’ room. She insists on doing it right now, but I’m being the prudent one, his true behavior remains to be seen. It also remains to be seen whether our actual sons will survive this war and need their room back. Everything, in fact, remains to be seen, and this is my only consolation. If I’ve learned one thing from watching our garden die, it’s that neither the good nor the bad stops to consider our plans, nor to appreciate our efforts; it simply happens.

She was the first to spot the child, she saw him walking down the hill and watched him enter our garden, bleeding but not making a sound. She brought him inside, dressed his wounds, gave him our children’s small clothes that she’d kept carefully folded away, she bathed him and cooked dinner, and she made him a bed in the little playroom in the basement. I suggested that we call the police, but she said no. She preferred a child over an investigation. She knows exactly what she does and doesn’t want.

That was more than six months ago, but the kid is still silent. I’d like to think he’s comfortable. He’s well behaved, sometimes he throws things while he’s playing, though he still hasn’t broken anything valuable. He doesn’t look like our sons, he’s dark and thin, and ours were and are, at least until their deaths are confirmed, blond and hardy. It’s strange, but his presence feels more and more familiar to us. He watches television with us, we avoid sad movies, he likes comedies, he laughs. He seems happy and he eats well. The truth is, we have no complaints. She strokes his hair when he falls asleep on the sofa, and he lets her, later I carry him to bed and change his clothes. I don’t dare give him a good-night kiss the way I did with our boys because, when it comes down to it, however likable this kid may be, he isn’t ours.

This morning the zone agent came to inquire about our situation. It seems the war is dragging on, that bombs are falling closer to us every day, he’s worried that we won’t be able to hold out; naturally, we lied. Or maybe not, maybe this boy is revitalizing our capacity to hold out. The pantry is almost empty. We have little tea left and even less coffee, we drink wine in smaller glasses each day, the vegetables are gone, though we do have string beans, the sausage and chorizo and potatoes can last us another two weeks, the canned fried tomatoes another month, milk is no problem, the two cows left in the region are surviving the war miraculously if you consider the dryness of the grass; bread hasn’t come since the baker was arrested, they say he wrote up secret reports and gave the enemy regular news about all of us and even hid an underground pulse unit. Impossible to know for sure, and a shame in any case, because he was a good baker. Since the war broke out, suspicions have done more damage than bullets.

The zone agent has warned us that there will be an evacuation drill next week, we don’t know what we’ll do with the child, not during the drill or during an actual evacuation, if there is one down the line. Before the war we never thought we’d leave this house, without saying so I think she and I both intended to die here. Now everything is different. We’ll have to make other plans.

Our greatest fun is when we chase the boy after his bath; he runs, wrapped in a towel, slipping on the wood floor, but he keeps going, and she and I laugh as we run behind him holding his pajamas, she with the pants, I with the shirt. It has been a long time since we’ve been happy. I think she likes to watch me run like a madman, just as I like to see her smiling again. When he’s finally dressed, with his pajamas on, we turn on the television and pull up the wool blanket; the coal is gone and, despite the fireplace, it’s cold. We huddle together, the three of us, and watch comedies, we all like comedies. While he laughs, we put his socks on his feet. All there is left on television now is comedies and dramas, and sad songs or military marches; news and all the rest of it were taken away when the pulse network stopped, when WRIST communications were permanently cut off. Before that, by looking at your inner wrist you could know, if you wanted, all about what was happening in the world, and, more importantly, you could see and hear your loved ones in real time and follow the rhythm of their heartbeats, but the blue light that used to cover the skin of our wrists has been turned off for some time. Now we have no choice but to laugh along with comedies on television, even though we’ve already seen them a million times. It’s something. At least the kid is amused.

When the boy has fallen asleep, she and I go to bed, exhausted, arms around each other, ready to surrender to sleep, just like before. We aren’t doing anything wrong, the child arrived alone, nobody brought him, and we like to think he doesn’t belong to anyone.

She and I, on the other hand, are very different. She is a lady, and before I married her I was her employee. Her life is not my life. The many things under this single roof keep their own names.

She is and always was a lady, and I, before becoming a gentleman, was a servant, everybody knows it, there’s no point in hiding anything.

I was born a day laborer, but I worked my way up to foreman, and later on she educated me, against my own nature, to be a gentleman, father, and husband. She did it slowly, sweetly, and firmly, the way she does everything.

The zone agent doesn’t suspect anything, we have two sons fighting in this war, he treats us respectfully but his enormous responsibility and small amount of power drive him to ask too many questions. She knows how to answer him. She says no to him as if there were nothing behind it, eliminates the second question with her first response, she has a gift. During the zone agent’s visit, the boy slept, or he pretended to sleep, she convinced him to and he didn’t protest. The boy knows exactly what he’s doing, wherever he comes from he doesn’t seem wild about going back. The little warmth and food we have appear to be enough for him, and this, why deny it, reassures us. Children of your own are always more demanding. Or that’s how it seemed to me. I saw so much of their mother in them that my pride mixed with responsibility and I felt I could never give them enough. Our sons, Augusto and Pablo, are less than two years apart in age, they grew up very close and enlisted together, and together they went off to war. For a man who’s never fought, it’s strange to have sons who are soldiers. I feel that I should be the one protecting them with my weapons, rather than the other way around. I feel useless. Our boy prisoner, who of course is no prisoner, helps me forget those thoughts and most others, too; when he smiles, I remember taking care of my own children. Sometimes, at night, I take one of my old Remington shotguns and patrol the house, I know it’s ridiculous but it comforts me. Maybe I’ll teach the new boy to hunt. There must be at least one fox left in the forest, I can’t see it but I know it’s there because I’ve found tooth marks in the wooden fence.

We’ve been given very precise instructions for the evacuation drill. What to take, in which line to stand, the identification papers we should bring. We’re worried about the boy, how to hide him, what documents we can use for him. Yesterday we argued about it. She thinks that if the evacuation occurs with the enemy at our door, so to speak, there won’t be time to be meticulous and no one will ask many questions, but I doubt this, I know the people in this region and the way some of them envy us, and I don’t want to give them the chance to harm us. On another point we agree completely: under no circumstances can we leave the boy alone, at the mercy of the enemy or, worse, starvation if the enemy takes too long to arrive.

The evacuation drill has been canceled; it seems we’re out of time. Our permanent relocation was announced this morning because the war is being lost, and for our own good, as they put it to us, we should leave our homes. They will protect us better than we can protect ourselves.

It’s all for our own good.

Right here, among our own, according to rumors, spies multiply and rats hide, or rats multiply and spies hide, I haven’t understood it very well. What’s happening is that our properties will be confiscated but respected, and maybe, in the best of all maybes, we might return one day to our own land, when the war is over and we can all trust each other again.

They say the new place is cleaner than this one, an enclosed translucent space where nothing bad can hide, or hurt us. They call it the transparent city.

Those responsible for our well-being think for us while they think of us. The zone agent speaks sensibly and says what the government tells him to say. One can assume that the government knows what it’s talking about, and knows why it does what it does.

We have a week to prepare for our departure. They gathered us in the town hall and explained to us that this transparent city is not an exile, not a prison, but a refuge. I don’t know whether everyone understood, there was a lot of murmuring, and questions, as well as rationalizations, and more than one protest. The fish farmer asked how much time we might expect to spend in this refuge, and whether being there makes us refugees, and the zone agent explained that this is no temporary refuge, but a secure city where we can start looking toward the future. Then a woman who I think is an accountant for the local government asked whether it’s true that we won’t ever return, and a man in the back, whom I didn’t recognize, said no way, no one could make him move, and the agent became impatient at all the questions and tried to put an end to things by saying that all relevant information would be provided on our arrival. That was enough for me, but not for my neighbors, many of whom shouted more questions and more protests, until the zone agent took out his gun and fired into the air to make everyone shut up. Silence fell over the room. He concluded by saying that our questions were beyond his ability to answer, but each of our admittedly reasonable concerns would be resolved by a higher authority when the time came.

The two of us didn’t say a peep. We have our own problems.

We don’t know how to hide the boy who isn’t ours, we’re trying to come up with a story that justifies his presence and sounds believable. When the roar of bombs dies down, suspicions grow into rumors. Every day another neighbor is arrested. No explanations are given, the guilty know perfectly well what they were up to, while the innocent are safe. Only those free of blame will go to the transparent city. Snitches are ratting out their fellow snitches. Yesterday the postmaster was taken, they say he read and resealed letters before delivering them. They say the enemy never sleeps, and could be anywhere, be anyone. We have two sons fighting in the war, and this gives us peace for now, as our sons’ bravery ensures our safety and earns us respect from our neighbors. We are the parents of soldiers, and for this reason the town doesn’t doubt our loyalty; nobody would betray their own children. Our problem is the boy, and we know it. We hid a boy without knowing where he came from, and that could make us appear guilty. Something must be done about the kid. As we pack our suitcases, we also plan. We speak to each other quietly at night, with the lights out, as if someone were spying on us. I think we’re both afraid.

She has agreed to passing him off as our nephew, it seems the most sensible plan. Many people have died in this war, and it’s not unusual for us to care for the children of our dead. I don’t have any siblings, but she has two in the capital, and though they aren’t the right age to be soldiers, they could have been bomb victims. You don’t have to be a particular age, or fit a certain profile, to be killed by a bomb. Anyone will do. She hasn’t heard from her siblings for some time now, they could be dead. The telephones stopped working more than a year ago, the mail takes a long time (and arrives already opened, it seems), so in theory anything is possible. Obviously, we’re trying to think of a name for the boy, something he’ll answer to or at least turn his head for. If you turn at the sound of a name, it’s yours.

We can’t seem to agree on a name, but we do agree that the sooner he learns it, the better, the poor kid has to get used to it. I like Julio, but she prefers Edmundo, which to me sounds long and complicated, like a fake name. If I keep insisting, I think Julio will win out. She chose our real sons’ names, so it only seems fair that I get to pick the name for this stranger.

The week of our departure has arrived. At night we look at the house from the outside, from the dead garden, to start getting used to being gone. We’ve fucked a couple of times since they told us we’d have to leave, we don’t know whether we’ll be able to keep fucking in the transparent city.

Everybody knows that transparency affects intimacy.

A rumor reached us this morning, and in the afternoon the zone agent confirmed it: we can only take a very few things to the city. No furniture, as there will be no trucks, and no books either, since they have books there. Two photographs are allowed: one of your parents and one of your children, for those who have children, but only one photo of each child per couple, no more. In the transparent city, almost everything has to start over. No cleaning supplies, because the provisional government is in charge of cleaning, and nothing that stains, so as not to make their work harder, one sports-related item, a ball, a tennis racket, a chess set, though many people mock the idea of chess as a sport, no weapons, because the city will protect us, no skis, because there’s no snow. One swimsuit per person, because there’s a pool, eyeglasses and contact lenses are permitted, but no medications, as those will be prescribed there after a brief review of our ailments. The zone agent says we’ll be as happy there as we could be anywhere else, and that—above all—we’ll be safe. She doubts it, and I’m worried too, but what can we do? The government must be trusted, as provisional as it might be. The only alternatives are anarchy or death. Two things that neither of us really wants. I’m almost hopeful about this adventure that sounds so secure.

While we pack, we try out both names on the boy, Julio and Edmundo, and he doesn’t turn for either of them, he must have a name, but we still don’t know what it is because he won’t say a word . . .

She shouts Edmundo and I shout Julio, but the kid pays us no mind, in the end she’s worn down and gives in. He’s Julio from this moment on.

We’re leaving very soon, they’ve told us that we have to burn down the house so it can’t harbor any enemies, but the land will remain in our name, and after the war, the government will send official help for reconstruction if it sees fit to do so. Someone asked whether that means we’ll be able to return, and the zone agent replied that it didn’t mean anything, not yet, and another guy asked whether our WRISTs would be returned, and the pulse units, and the agent stated flatly that the WRIST system will never return, as it’s been proven to cause sedition, and in response to the next question—whether we’d be washing clothes by hand or with machines—the good man got fed up, not without reason, and began replying to everything the same way, saying that the question is beyond what he knows or can do.

It’s clear that the zone agent doesn’t have much more information than the rest of us about what’s going on or where we’re headed. I have to admit that I figured this out a long time ago, which is why I don’t ask any questions. I won’t take any delicate clothing, to be safe. Who knows if everything will get washed together, or what.

They’ve given us two cans of gasoline to burn down our home. Of course I’ve thought about using them to fill the tank of our car and driving off on our own, but the cars were seized yesterday, because they’d thought of the same thing. We’ll be going to the transparent city in air-conditioned buses. The train tracks have been sabotaged.

Burning down our house won’t be easy. She cries just thinking about it, and I try to console her, not because I’m not sad too, but because over the years I’ve become the one who provides comfort. Also, the house is hers, and before that it belonged to her first husband’s family, so it’s understandable that this would really crush her soul.

She, like all women, is stronger than any man, but sometimes she breaks and I hug her. I do it without thinking, it’s what I’ve done all my life. My father did the same with my mother.

Julio smiles like none of this has anything to do with him, his innocence protects him, at least for now; if one day they discover that he isn’t ours, he’ll learn . . . well, may God keep him from it.

We only have two days left to burn everything and get out of here, the suitcases are packed. We’ve slept terribly, but that’s something anyone in their right mind could understand, you don’t abandon the place that’s been your home just like that, plus the moon has been full. Last night, the white light slid between the curtains and we had no choice but to stare at what was until very recently ours, and to see it all with unbearable clarity.

At dawn we finally surrendered to sleep.

 

We woke to Julio’s cries. Sometimes when he’s having nightmares, Julio weeps like a baby. We don’t know what he dreams, because he still won’t say a word, but he calms down when he’s in her arms. Children and animals have a hard time adjusting to change, and he senses that we’re leaving, he’s seen his suitcase, he’s also seen the cans of gasoline in the living room, though I can’t tell whether he knows what we must do with them.

He’s had a good breakfast, we’ve given him almost everything we had left although she’s hidden a few cans among our clothes, though we’ve been assured that there will be food. She’s not quick to trust, and I don’t blame her. After washing up, we took a walk around the property, all the way to the forest. We don’t know when we’ll be able to return, which made the walk strange. Not for Julio, he was happy, climbing trees, chasing flies; squirrels have been gone for some time. It’s hard to know what a child is thinking, but it’s clear that daytime doesn’t scare him, only his dreams do. We are scared of the days, of real things, of knowing that we may never return, of not knowing who we’ll be when we come back if that day ever arrives. Of course I took my shotgun to the forest, and I even shot at a sparrow. I don’t usually shoot birds, but there isn’t anything else left in the forest now. I don’t know when I’ll be able to hunt again, weapons are forbidden in the transparent city. In any case, I have no intention of burning my shotguns along with my house, I’ve decided to bury them in pillowcases when she and the boy are asleep. I won’t tell them about it—not them, not the zone agent, not anyone. A man does what he likes with his shotguns. As it should be.

Julio has gotten lost in the forest a couple of times, we’ve called to him with his new name and he’s returned. At least I’ve hit the mark on one thing. Julio is a good name.

We’ve gathered berries and a few flowers, we want our last dinner to be special. Anything that doesn’t happen often is special, and the most special things are those that might never happen again.

I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned this, but she’s a formidable cook. The old potatoes have a bitter edge, and her sweet tomato sauce blunts it. She has many other talents beyond the kitchen, she often helps me not to cry, and at other times she entertains me with her over-the-top stories. That’s something I admire in her that I never learned: how to make up stories. It’s no wonder that Julio is almost always by her side now that he knows his name, and even before he knew it. Our children did the same thing. People who know how to tell stories always have company.

After a lot of folding and pressing, hiding and removing, choosing and tossing, we packed our three suitcases with the essentials for our life in the transparent city. We’ve left them next to the front door.

This is the house where our children were born, and where they had their first sip of milk from a wet nurse who died before the war but because of this war. She was a foreigner, from the enemy’s land, and she was displaced as tension was rising, soon after the murder of the Twelve Righteous Ones. The Twelve Righteous Ones were murdered for their faith, which is strange when you consider that nobody around here ever believed in much of anything at all, but the Twelve Righteous Ones prayed and were the first to fall. A single bomb took them all out, and though the guilty party was never found, the enemy was immediately blamed for the tragedy. The newspapers declared that war was imminent, and deportations began. Our wet nurse died in a refugee camp near the border. Our children had forgotten her by the time they left for war, and we never told them about her. When the war broke out, Augusto was nine and Pablo was eight. They’ve spent most of their lives in wartime, but we did what we could to shield them. It’s only been three years since bombs became audible nearby, before that it was easy to make them believe that this war didn’t exist. For a long time, we lived far from the misfortune. This was before misfortune spread across mountain and valley, town and forest, and all over the land, before fear invaded our whole region, before news arrived that the capital had fallen, before all that.

She and I understood that our sons would be soldiers if the war dragged on, which is why we secretly followed the news and hoped for a truce that never came. The war has lasted more than a decade, the longest one we’ve seen in our lives. The wet nurse had a sweet face, weathered in the way of someone who’s worked outdoors from sunup to sundown since childhood, and her breasts were pale and generous. We never believed she could harm us, but the government thought differently. It’s easier for a man to be trusting, but a government has to be careful, protect its long-term interests. Those with the most responsibility must be the most vigilant. That’s how it should be, I think, and that’s why I put up no resistance when they took the wet nurse, and that’s why my wife didn’t say anything in her defense either, though the wet nurse had so tenderly cared for our boys and had never, to our knowledge, wished us harm.

Little by little they took all the domestic workers, the immigrants who cared for the garden and the land, and then the boys lined up and left, and in the end we were alone until the arrival of this kid, Julio, whom we don’t want to lose. I look out at the land and don’t see any of what we cultivated with our own hands. No harvested grain, no baskets of fruit, no wood to chop, no weeds to pull among the rose bushes, all of it overrun with the same weeds now, formless, not a flower in sight. Nor do any weasels or dormice poke their heads between the plants, no vermin hide among the roof tiles, no wasps bang against the windows. There aren’t even any robbers to ward off with my gun, nor any foreigners left to hang. Nobody comes through here anymore except the zone agent, and his mere presence seems to keep away all beasts, large and small. All that’s left of what was ours is the shadow of our house, and the house itself. The names of those who’ve slept under our roof and in the stables are slipping from memory, and we can’t remember anyone but Augusto and Pablo, our two soldiers. We used to get letters from Augusto occasionally, but never from Pablo. Any day now they’ll kill our boys, if they haven’t already. That’s what she’s always saying: any day now they’ll kill our boys. She says it constantly, and I tell her no, woman, no, but she repeats it as if she hasn’t heard me. Once she puts her mind to something, no one can stop her, she’s as stubborn as a mule. If she wants to make cakes, she does it, even if there isn’t any sugar, and then she gets angry if I don’t eat them. But she’s a good woman, capable and clean, and though she was raised as a lady, she can do backbreaking work like a champ. When our mares were taken, she turned the lever at the well with her bare hands. They blistered, but she didn’t stop until we had enough water to get through the day. Running water was cut off at the beginning of the war, maybe before that, when war was no more than a word spoken over and over as if it were the only word left.

The first zone agent told us the water was going to stop running, so we filled the bathtubs and all our pitchers like they would last forever, then lived off rainwater caught by the well and prayed there would be no more droughts, and when drought came anyway, we bought water from the tanker trucks with her four remaining pieces of antique jewelry. We have no jewelry left now, nor barely anything that could be used to barter with, and the little we do have covers only potatoes and milk. The earth is becoming barren as no one is farming it, and soon there won’t be anything left to eat in the valley, which is why it’s not so bad that they’ll be taking us away from here and burning down our house, or making us burn it down. It’s almost certain we’ll be better off in the government’s care than on our own, since taking care of ourselves in this barren land isn’t possible anymore. A man who doesn’t provide for his family shrinks and shrinks until he no longer exists, and before that happens he must accept in good faith what the government offers. In the new city, they’ll tell us how we can earn a living, and it seems from what the zone agent says that tasks and jobs have been planned for everyone in accordance with our abilities, so that no one freeloads or gets restless for lack of things to do, because laziness is bound to lead to problems. When we arrive we’ll be given employment, nothing important at first, but enough for us to have a place and not disturb the overall flow of things, the normal, the necessary, since in that city, according to what’s being said, noise and disturbances are strictly forbidden, which I must admit puts my mind at ease, because all good things require an atmosphere of order, and the rest is a breeding ground for good-for-nothings, bums, and petty thieves, who, the second you let your guard down, multiply among citizens who wear decency on their sleeves. If one thing has been made clear about what we’re to find in the new city, it’s that no excess or ruckus will be allowed, that there will be people who monitor us to make sure everything is as it should be, since, with many people living in close quarters, the crooked shatter under pressure, and these shattered pieces become splinters or kindling for a larger fire. Back when people worked the land, each person took care of his business and there was room for everyone, but if we have to live together, cramped and unarmed, it’s better that we be monitored and not have to pay for what others get up to. She says she can’t imagine what life will be like there, and I tell her it doesn’t matter, there’s no point trying to imagine what will soon come to pass. We’ve told the boy Julio about the move, and he either doesn’t care or doesn’t understand, because he’s kept on smiling as if none of this has anything to do with him. He hasn’t been in our home long enough to be attached to it, and he never saw our land when it was rich and beautiful, so that’s not a loss to him. He never played with the horses or hunted in the forest, and the fact is he’s barely seen the best of what this house or the two of us have to offer. He’ll have nothing to compare to the future, nor will whatever’s coming bear the shadow of our past. He won’t lose any friends in the move, since there are no children left on any of the nearby farms or even in town, the last of them were taken by hunger or the flu; the older kids are off at war, and the only adult males left are the old men from town, the gypsies of the valley, and, on the hill beyond the forest, the water owners, husband and wife, who sell us water from tanker trucks during droughts, but the water owners are very important people, the kind you see only during public holidays, and even then you barely say a word to them out of respect, or perhaps out of fear, which everyone has for them. In all this time I’ve barely exchanged more than a good morning or good afternoon with the water owners. She, on the other hand, has something of a friendship with the water owner’s wife, also referred to as the water owner, because the water was actually hers first, inherited from her father. She used to have my wife over for tea in her mansion once in a while, but her husband didn’t want her to be so friendly with the neighbors, and after that my wife never set foot in the water owners’ luxurious rooms again. Our house is very nice, I’m not complaining or anything, but theirs is a mansion as God intended, with so many servants that, when they gather for a hunt, they look like an army. She’s asked me whether the water owners’ mansion will also be burned down, and I’ve told her I don’t think so, because such important people would surely be treated differently, despite the war and the evacuation; plus, I’ve heard the postmen in town gossiping that the water owners might not be relocated at all, and that if they are, they won’t go with the regular group but with another one headed to a different place, a better one I suppose, given their importance. All kinds of things are said in town and no one knows what’s really true, and people always say strange things about the rich, mostly out of envy. It doesn’t make sense to go around making predictions, because soon enough we’ll all find out what’s what, when we get in line to leave we’ll see who’s coming with us and who isn’t.

I’m in charge of burning the house because I don’t want her to hurt herself, not for anything in the world. I’ll do it the way they told us to and use the gasoline cans we were given. I don’t understand why so much gasoline is being wasted in times like these, when you think about it I could burn the house with just a bit of alcohol and cardboard and wool, but the orders arrive on officially embossed paper and it’s always best to obey these types of papers without complaints or questions, since not doing so could raise suspicions, especially when there’s a war going on and enemies will take advantage of anything that could harm morale.

This caring for her so much isn’t new, because I’ve always taken care of her as best I could, when I was foreman of this land, and later when she was widowed, and when, soon after that, she became mine. Horrible things were said in town about our love, but it’s not true that I dared look her in the eyes, nor that I defied her husband while he was still alive; it was her love that gave me this land, not my ambition. She chose me to carry the name of this house, she gave me books to read, she taught me with great patience, until I was no longer the man I’d been and transformed into the one I am today. She never told our children anything about the past, never told them that before I oversaw the laborers, I was a laborer myself. They found this out at school, and if it hurt them we never learned of it, as we raised them to be strong, quiet, and solid, which is why they’re such good soldiers, the three medals on one of their chests and two medals on the other prove it. Medals for courage, not for favors or office work, real medals for real soldiers. When we think they might be dead, which we do every so often, turning our imagination to the medals doesn’t ease our pain or our fear, but I do notice how they pull at the hems of our pride, at the threads of that regal garment every parent wears when looking at their children from a distance, though of course we’d rather have them by our side again, safe and sound.

When I burn the house, I don’t want her to see it, not even a bit, which is why I told her to wait at the bus stop, which is where we’ve been told the women will gather while the men destroy everything to protect it all from the enemy. That’s what was written on the official notice the zone agent gave us, and that’s what we’ll do, because when it comes to government matters, there should be no nonsense or delay. Each person’s pain is their own business, and there’s no use going around crying like children when what’s required of us is action, courage, and strategy. The zone agent has taken the time to explain everything so as to avoid errors or confusion, and he’s mentioned in a low voice, like a man going beyond the call of duty out of friendship and trust, that for the government’s plan to succeed, the obedience and goodwill of each participant will be of utmost importance. Though we’ll be forming a line, we are not kids, and the final victory depends in great measure on our own effort and tenacity. That’s how he put it to us, and if it sounded like propaganda it wasn’t his fault, but rather the fault of those who taught him to say what he says. Before this zone agent, we had another one who spoke in the same way, but that one was killed because of suspicions, so really, being a zone agent who repeats all the government’s instructions to the letter guarantees nothing; here, the minute a rumor sticks to you, you’re fucked. She’s the one who taught me to question what they tell us, because before I was a man of labor rather than of letters, and she’s also the one who taught me to obey despite my doubts, that one thing doesn’t impede the other. The way she explained it to me, or the way I’ve understood it, is that you obey because it’s to your advantage to do so, and you doubt because you think. And if one of those things saves your life, the other seems to save your soul. That’s how she’s persuaded me to carry forward our little ploy and not tell anyone about our Julio, not what we know and not what we can imagine, and instead to breathe life into the lie we’ve come up with, which she refers to as our story.

She says that it’s the story that matters and not the reality that binds it. Since she’s much more intelligent than I am, I listen to her about everything, and when it comes to her, I neither doubt nor obey but act out of free will and conviction. Abandoning the boy to his own fate doesn’t seem like a godly thing to do, and we know that caring for defenseless children, whether they have a name or not, is just and good in the eyes of the Lord, and cannot bring anything bad to our hearts.

She left for town at dusk, suitcase in hand, it’s almost a two-hour walk but she’s strong and her pace is so brisk it takes effort to keep up with her. She’s left the boy with me because I asked her to, I think the house will make a spectacular fire once night falls, and there is no child who doesn’t love to watch a fire.

The kid has helped me with the gasoline cans, and we’ve splashed every room and then, more carefully, the foundation. I didn’t let him use the lighter, because it’s not like I want him to turn into a pyromaniac or have too much fun with something that, at the end of the day, as important as it might be to the provisional government, signifies the end of everything we were and had.

As I watched the house burn, surprise rushed in where I thought I’d feel sorrow. It burned so quickly that it seemed to be made of toothpicks instead of sturdy wood, and soon, as the boy and I rubbed the heat and sparks from our eyes, it didn’t exist at all.

I suppose that’s how everything disappears.

 

There was a tremendous uproar at the bus stop, and when the kid and I arrived, lost in a crowd of so many sad faces and all of them the same and so very many people, it took us a good while to find her. How happy it made us to be together again! Like we hadn’t seen each other in a long time, though it’d been only a few hours. Night was well under way and the buses still hadn’t arrived, but according to the zone agent, the first and foremost thing to do was form orderly rows, collect names, and examine suitcases. At first count, thirty extra people had appeared, but they were all gypsies and were immediately removed—not without a racket, of course, these being gypsies, the second you do anything to them they weep and shout like they’re being flayed. It had been made very clear, both in writing and aloud, that gypsies would not be going to the transparent city with the rest of us, so who knows why they made such a scene. In any case, they were removed from the line and despite the big fuss they had no choice but to return to the valley. I’ve never had a problem with gypsies, no good feelings and no bad; if I saw them near the stables, the chickens, or the orchards, I’d take up my shotgun and that would be that. There’s no gypsy in the world who doesn’t respect a shotgun. Once they were gone, another count took place, and that second winnowing yielded only two who didn’t belong, not gypsies but foreigners. They were taken aside and carefully stripped of their suitcases, without a word as to what would happen to them, though I’d guess they would go right to a prison camp. It seemed that nobody knew them, and anyone who did know them pretended not to. I had no need to lie, as I’d never seen them before in my life. They were a young couple, clearly deserters, at least he was, considering that if he’d been from here and as healthy as he looked, at his age he’d be a soldier at war, just like our sons. Nobody has said anything about Julio, it’s obviously assumed that he’s family; we’re from here, and we have some status, with two sons who are, if not heroes, at least soldiers. I pray for everything to go well, and swallow hard.

They haven’t removed anyone else from the line, though they have confiscated a lot of items from people, because, though the government paper stated each person could bring only one small suitcase, there are some who seem to have brought everything with them except the wall clock and the marriage bed. I even saw a cello confiscated—you’ve got to be off your rocker to try to bring a cello on a bus for refugees. As if we’d try to form a band.

When our turn arrived, we showed our papers, but the zone agent knew us well, and there were no problems except for the boy, which we’d expected. I let her do the talking, since she’s a lady to the marrow of her bones and could explain it all without a tremble in her voice, and she spoke from such great heights that the agent lowered his gaze and even stroked our false nephew’s hair affectionately and with great pity when she said he’d been recently orphaned and was shaken, almost mute with pain. The kid behaved splendidly and put on such a sad face that, had he been a film actor, he’d have won an award. Meanwhile, my hands were clammy with sweat up until the moment the zone agent stamped our papers with the official seal and moved on to the next people in line. While he was talking to us and asking about the kid, I did hear people murmuring, but it’s not like they knew enough about us to understand our affairs, we only came down the hill and into town for holidays, for any major shopping I’d drive to the city in our car. I’ve always known that we were envied, and it should come as no surprise, because aside from the water owners we had the biggest house in the region. As it happened, just as I told her, the water owners weren’t at the bus stop, and though I didn’t say anything, it stupidly made me happy that I’d been right. Just as well, because if I’d said something, I would have ended up looking like a complete idiot. When everyone in line had been registered, the water owners arrived in a car, with a chauffeur and everything. The car wasn’t theirs, it belonged to the government, and had an official license plate and a national flag attached to the antenna. I was so surprised to see them that I pulled on her sleeve, as the agent had requested, or rather demanded, silence. She calmed me by pressing my hand, as if to convey that nothing could surprise her anymore.

The water owners didn’t get out of the car until everything was ready, nor did they present their papers to the zone agent, and when three buses finally arrived, they got on the first one, cutting to the front of the line we stood in, while the rest of us waited patiently. Once they were inside, the rest of us were told to board one at a time, in the order in which we stood. When she and I boarded, I don’t know why, but it calmed me to see the owners there, and without greeting anyone we settled in as quickly as possible in the back, almost in the last row. The zone agent inspected the three buses one by one, and counted us all one more time. He also congratulated us on fulfilling the procedures with discipline, and encouraged us to relax a bit and chat if we liked, as the trip would be a long one.

We placed the boy between us, so that the three of us occupied only two seats. We put our suitcases in the compartment over our heads, they were small suitcases, as had been requested. She kissed the boy on the forehead as the bus started to move, then she kissed me on the lips. We now had permission to talk, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

We took the road toward the city, and as we passed the hill I saw smoke rising from our house, but on the other side of the forest I saw no smoke at all. The water owners’ mansion had not been burned, so I’d at least been right about that. Soon after we left the valley, we detoured off the main highway onto the region’s old road, passing the harbor, leaving the lake behind us, then crossing into the neighboring region. As we passed through the next town over, we saw that it was empty, it must have been evacuated first, and as we drove on we saw one deserted village after another, and I could tell they’d been depopulated recently because there were still objects on the streets, clothes, furniture, open suitcases, and even lights left on in a window here and there, perhaps more out of forgetfulness than because anyone was still inside, and in this manner towns passed by us like ghosts without names until we were so far from home that I didn’t recognize a thing. The child was sleeping, and the chatter on the bus had died down until almost nobody was talking anymore and only snores filled the bus. She was awake, staring out of the window, it was hard to tell what she was thinking, and when I asked, she said that she wasn’t thinking about anything, except perhaps about what the transparent city would be like and whether it would be made of glass or crystal or some other see-through material, and whether we’d have enough room to be comfortable, and whether there would be a school or other children at least, though the part about a school didn’t bother her too much, as she herself could certainly teach Julio what he needed to learn. She wasn’t wrong about that, before she took me as her lover and then her husband, I barely knew my arithmetic, or how to handle invoices or records, and about the greater world I knew nothing, nothing at all, that is to say, I knew how to work with my hands, and how to read and write in a pinch, but not much more. I could do things but not think about them, and it was she, with her books, who taught me little by little how to imagine and remember, how to clearly express my ideas and emotions. With her help, I learned quickly, though I would never call myself bright. With our sons, who came from her and had her blood, and therefore her superior intelligence, she’d done an even better job, and they talked in a way that made you love to just listen. To me, a man who’s never met anyone of importance, they sounded like princes. Our new kid, Julio, seems pretty smart, though he hasn’t spoken yet, so I have no doubt that she’ll know how to turn him into an able, educated young man. Of course, if he keeps being mute, he’ll run into problems. But all things considered, with the war, maybe not as many problems as those who talk too much.

Since she seemed tired, I stopped asking her questions and closed my eyes for I don’t know how long, and I dreamed that I was hunting with my real sons and that we were killing a wild boar and a rabbit, and that’s where I was, inside my dream, skinning those animals, when I was woken by the sound of planes. At first, planes buzz, and then immediately the bombs shriek down, and over time you get used to waking up fast, the way people do when children cry in the middle of the night. After the bombs shriek, you quickly say whatever prayers you know, just as you might when you see lightning and fear the thunder that might follow. Three bombs fell. The first two didn’t hit anything, they only left two huge holes one hundred meters from the highway; the last bomb hit the middle bus. Our driver stopped, but the water owner, the husband, stood up and ordered him to go on, and the driver obeyed. I don’t know whether the water owner is still in charge of anything in here, but some people have given so many orders that their voices inspire obedience. The zone agent isn’t with us, and I don’t know whether he’s in the second bus, the one the bomb destroyed, or in the third bus, I don’t even know whether he’s traveling with us or he stayed in town.

In any case, we’ve kept on, and the planes have left, and we don’t know what happened to the bus that was hit, though most likely all the people in it are dead. She’s clasped me so tightly that I’m sure I’ll have bruises, but the boy Julio didn’t even wake up, and we’ve laughed about that, about how this poor kid can sleep through bombs, although I also think we were laughing out of happiness that the three of us are still alive, that we got on this bus and not the other one. We didn’t look back for a good long while, to avoid seeing the dead, or worse, a wounded person left to his horrible fate.

When we finally do turn to look, there’s nothing left to see, and the two remaining buses drive on through the night toward wherever it is we’re going. The driver has turned off his headlights, in case the planes return, and he’s going more slowly, even though there’s a nice big moon and you can see what’s ahead. And we’re probably visible, too. Soon enough, we spy the first light of day, and the headlights become useless anyway, nor is there any false darkness under which to hide. The trip is so long that I start thinking we must be near the border, but since we haven’t had any reliable news about the war for months now, it’s hard to know whether the border is in the same place and how much territory still belongs to us versus the enemy. During wars, maps are often good for only a few days, with all the movement of troops here and there, forward and in retreat; the lines are stripped away and only soldiers’ feet mark what’s this or that, yours or mine. With the little I’ve seen of this country, and with what a poor student of geography I was, it’s hard for me to establish where we are exactly, but it seems strange that the transparent city, or the glass or crystal city, or the whatever-it’s-made-of city, could be so close to what until very recently was enemy land. It’s also possible that, despite this evacuation and all the shortages, we’re winning this war, that we’re conquering more of them than they are of us. On the bus, breakfast has begun, since everyone brought something for the first day at least, not bread, as there hasn’t been any of that since the baker was found guilty of snitching, but something, a bit of cured meat or dried herring. We’re fine on water, because the water owner brought a nice big six-liter container, which I suppose is why his orders still carry weight and are followed to the letter. He is, without a doubt, the highest in command on this bus, since he’s the one who distributes the water, and because he gave the driver the first drink, you might say he’s got him in his pocket, and well paid. As the second in command—a role he takes up once he’s slaked his thirst—the driver has instructed us over the loudspeaker not to drink more than the cup we’re given, that the journey is long and there’s still quite a way to go before reaching our destination. So that’s what we’ve done. It’s not the water owner, of course, who’s hauled the water container down the aisle between the seats, but rather the man who’d been sitting just behind him, who, thanks to that coincidence, has found himself charged with an important responsibility and has carried it out with all the rigor of a general keeping his troops in order. If someone asked for more water, the good man would immediately raise his hand as if to deliver a blow, and nobody will argue with that. After the little rations of water were distributed, the people exchanged their good mornings and other chatter, but with so many people talking at once, it’s been impossible to understand a thing, and the clamor on the bus was not so different from the clamor in town, the noise people make when they’re together. Julio has woken up very hungry, and we’ve given him a can of tuna and our last strip of bacon. He’s thanked us with kisses. He’d kissed her before, but it’s the first time he’s kissed me. I felt a lot of love for him then, and the urge to take care of him.

We’ve arrived at midday without planes or any more attacks, but through the windows we see scorched earth that looks like the end of the whole world, and there are so many bomb craters and graves marked with rifles stuck into the earth that we could swear nobody but us is left alive. The landscape resembles the places we know, but it’s another place. I haven’t traveled much, but I imagine that the entire earth is like this from one end to the next—that is to say, the same. From the books she gave me to read while trying to teach me, I concluded that things aren’t too different around the world and that’s why people dress in different colors and sing different songs, to dream for a while that they’re different in some way.

We’d been getting hungry and thirsty ever since the water container had been put away, stashed safely at its owner’s feet, when a tire burst with a gunshot sound. At first I thought it was another attack, but immediately the bus began to swerve on its deflated wheel and the driver shouted, it’s a flat! And when the water owner asked for clarification, the driver, slowing to a stop, informed us of what was going on over the loudspeaker, leaving no room for doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, he said very calmly into his microphone, we have a flat, and since I have no spare tire, the journey will continue from here on foot.

The water owner, the de facto commander in charge of our trip, asked for further explanation and suggested switching the placement of the tires, but the driver replied that, in case nobody had noticed, this was not an eighteen-wheeler, nor a vehicle that ran on ten tires, or eight, but rather a small, old bus with four wheels and no spare tires, and that without another tire there was nothing to be done, and a human being was better off on his own two feet than inside an old bus that had only three wheels. Once these explanations had satisfied, which took more than a little effort, the water owner told us to exit in an orderly manner and wait for the last bus to arrive and offer help. The driver told him that the third bus—which was the second bus now that a bomb had fallen on the middle one—had already passed us. At this, the water owner’s authority was undermined, or at least diminished. He still had what was left in the water container, which was, given the circumstances, everybody’s water, and nobody dared challenge his power, though there was increased muttering from dissidents, who exist in any group. Whether or not we had faith, we all got off the bus—why stay inside it if it doesn’t work anymore? We disembarked in the same order in which we’d gotten on, first her, the one who takes care of us, then the boy, who matters so much to us, and finally me, the man who’s here in case anything goes wrong. Once our feet hit the ground, new groups formed, and new plans, with some wanting to return, others wanting to keep going and find the transparent city themselves without knowing where it was, while others among us sat down to wait for orders without knowing who would give them. The water owner backed the driver, thinking, and I believe he was right to think, that if he’d known how to get us there by bus, he’d also know the way by foot. The most important thing, of course, was to find out how far we were from our new home, as we had enough water for a day if we drank less than camels, and after that, unless anyone knew the exact locations of wells or lakes or rivers along the way, we’d inevitably start dying. This sparked the first major conflict, because, according to the driver, the city was at least two days away on foot, and that was at the pace of the strongest, and there was only enough water for one day of everyone walking together, or for both days for only the fastest among us.

It was no easy task to divide us in two, because at the end of the day we all in principle have the same rights, so there was no choice but to resort to force. When no other strategy works, force prevails, so we formed groups of the strong, and I had no trouble heading mine, as I’ve worked the land so much, since before I even learned to read, that my arms are as thick as clubs. While we argued over all these issues, she didn’t say a word, nor did she leave my side, and she kept the boy tucked beneath her skirt, knowing that only death could tear them away from me. As always happens when two groups are formed, we, beside the stalled bus, we immediately split again—into four. Among the men, there were some who were stronger than me, but they were less rugged, and nobler, and they were trying to protect more people than they reasonably could. I was only looking after two, whom I would defend with my life if I had to, and as soon as anyone tried to push me, I’d let it be known that this wouldn’t be my first fight and that, when sober and determined, I was almost impossible to knock down. The four groups formed almost naturally, each vying to travel with the water, and at the sight of us all finally divided up and silent, I think we were all gripped with fear of hurting one another, because acting like you’re ready to fight is one thing, and real fighting is another. So it was left for the water owner to decide who would join him. The man who’d carried the water container on the bus immediately went to his side, because he’d grown fond of power and water, the driver had no qualms and knew it was better to accept a master than to wander this land alone. Two men from our town, who’d worked for the dam and who hauled tree trunks as if they were feathers, joined also, and we almost didn’t make it into the winning group, except that the water owner was struck by the way I jostled against the weaker people with bad intentions, and, above all, because his wife fondly recalled the teas she and my wife had enjoyed together.

It was his wife who gestured to us as the final chosen ones, pointing as she whispered our names into her husband’s ear.

Those two, the water owner said, and then we go.

There are three of us, my wife said.

However many it is, and we’re off, the water owner’s wife said, and when it came down to it the water that supplied our valley and the little that remained in the container all belonged to her, she’d inherited it from her father. Water that bore her name, and hers alone.

The water owner was not so different from me, a man who’d married above his station, the only difference being that where shame kept me silent, he got louder. He raised his voice so much that he gave the impression that everything was his, when we knew it wasn’t. I neither liked nor disliked him, and I walked behind him because the driver knew where we were going and was at his side, but it’s not as if I’d sworn my loyalty to him, nor did I owe him a thing. When our group was complete, there was no need for head counts, as there were only eight of us, plus Julio. The two water owners, the driver, the man who carried the water container, the two former dam workers, her, and me. My wife and the water owner’s wife walked together, arm in arm, which gave the boy and me a certain status, because we were connected to them, even though we were walking toward the back, a few paces away. We’d left the suitcases on the bus. Despite our careful choosing of what to take and what to leave behind, we knew they’d be too much of a burden on the road. In any case, before we left town, the zone agent had told us that in the transparent city we’d be given everything we needed to live. I kept only the photographs of my sons; it was already hard enough to have no news of them, and I feared I would end up forgetting their faces. She, with all her foresight, took the little food we had left, as the road would be long and we’d want it when hunger mauled us. The water owners’ things would be transported separately, I suppose, in trucks. Important people don’t carry things, and their possessions were probably waiting for them in the city. We walked almost in single file for a long time over the plains. After passing a few hills, the land began to twist and turn, and before we could see the mountains, those of us who were country people quickly understood that the ground was sloping. Our feet grew heavy, and we had to put in twice the effort to get from one step to the next. The driver walked in front, checking his map, looking for shortcuts, because, he said, and the man had a point, following the highway is one thing when you’re traveling by bus and another thing when you’re on foot, when there might be shorter routes. The water owner walked behind the driver, glancing behind him now and then to see whether the women were still following him and, I’m guessing, also to see how much they were chatting. No man likes his wife to talk too much, because in women’s laughter and complaints he’s bound to catch a blow. I, from my place in the back, only glanced at my wife to make sure her steps were steady and she didn’t need my help, I’ve never been afraid of what she does and doesn’t say, perhaps because the worst about me was already spoken at our wedding and there’s nothing left to be said. In fact, now that we’re roaming free, without any land or possessions, I’m realizing that I love her more than ever and without a trace of embarrassment. Maybe it’s this uphill slope that equalizes everything, but I think at this very moment and possibly for the first time I truly love her, without the shame of having been her employee before, and with more daring than I knew I had when I first became her husband.

If I’m glancing at her a lot, it’s from fear that she might trip, and because, seeing her like this, from a distance, she looks all the more beautiful. I’m not one for poetry, but any man who’s loved even a little bit knows what I’m talking about. To look at a woman is nothing like embracing her, because when she’s in your arms, you’re deeply close to each other and everything is covered up, while at a distance, without you there, the woman you love becomes something to admire from afar. That’s what was on my mind—how I loved her more and better than ever, and how I had to keep the kid from falling behind chasing grasshoppers—when the man who carried the water container stepped on a mine, and in a single second we were reduced to seven. The little that remained of that man, the water container man, couldn’t have been sewn back together by the best surgeon in the world. The minefields aren’t from this war, but from the one before it, and some of them were still in the ground, I’d heard of people in the mountains stepping on them because they weren’t paying attention. The mines are visible among the weeds, as there are marks around them; moles smell them and surround them, and the dirt over them is uneven. The water container man wasn’t originally from the country, I thought I might have seen him at the grocery store, but I’m not sure about that, and that’s why he stepped on the mine. It was horrible to see, and the women closed their eyes. The water container had fallen and rolled down a cliff, and one of the dam workers had to climb down to retrieve it, and by some miracle he didn’t break his neck on the rocks, but managed to return with the container and carry it until nightfall. We men drank only once, just before sunset, the boy acted like a man and drank when I did, and the women drank twice, but in little sips, because if women are ladies, they barely open their mouths when they drink or do anything else, and these two women in particular, my wife and the other one, were ladies from the cradle to the grave, as my mother used to say, and ladies like these can be spotted from far away and without even knowing their names, mostly because they barely open their mouths, and when they do it’s for good reason and with purpose. As an example, I’ll tell you that my wife picked up an abandoned helmet in the hills, stained with blood, and though it disgusted the rest of us, she said that once clean it would make a good soup pot, and we had no choice but to admit she was right, and later she cleaned it in a few seconds with dirt and leaves, and those who hadn’t yet known saw that she was a reliable woman, which I’d known the whole time.

As twilight deepened, an argument broke out between the former dam workers. About why we couldn’t stop for the night, about whether the group knew where it was going, about why the water owner was in charge when there was barely any water left, and they went back and forth like this until one told his companion that if the water owner was in charge, it wasn’t because of the water but because he had a gun with him at all times. I took all of this in as I walked behind them, and I was glad that someone in our group was armed, and hoped it was true. The way things stood, we were going to sleep out in the open, and you can sleep better outside with weapons by the fire. Without weapons there’s no order, there’s nothing, and when the water owner called for us to stop and rest, as we had finally reached the shelter of a thicket of trees, we all obeyed like that pistol existed, and when he proposed we make a fire for the soup, we got right to it, though we didn’t know yet what the hell kind of soup it would be.

While the women gathered the food they’d brought, we men looked for branches and something for the broth. Not the water owner, though, or the driver, they sat and studied the map to see whether we were headed in the right direction, it was the rest of us who set out for kindling. I don’t see anything wrong or unusual about those in charge sitting down to think while the rest of us go out and do things, because that’s how I’ve always understood the government, and that’s what I did when I went from laborer to foreman, and then from foreman, though it was out of love, to owner.

The larger of the two former dam laborers, a man at least my size, jokingly remarked that we could have made a nice soup from the bones of the water container man, and it goes without saying that we all looked at him with contempt and removed him, without a word, from the short list of our sympathies. When you’re in a group by force and not by choice, it’s hard to decide whom you like more and whom less, and you’re thankful when some idiot identifies himself early on, so that everyone else can immediately feel better and know whom they wouldn’t miss. In this case we couldn’t possibly have made a wiser choice, because the larger dam worker, in addition to quickly tiring of the search for branches and only bringing the dampest ones, as if he had no idea how to make a fire, was drinking secretly from a flask he wasn’t sharing even with his old coworker. I saw all of this, and so did Julio, as we gathered dry wood and dead leaves. And we also saw the fight that took place between them, the dam workers, when the smaller one wanted some of the larger one’s wine. And we saw the way the smaller one struck the large man with a stone until he was senseless, and stole his wine, and then we watched him run off like a criminal, unaware that what he was carrying wasn’t enough for the long road ahead. Julio and I approached the dead man—indeed, he was dead from the stoning—and, given that nothing could be done for him anymore, we searched his pockets for coins or anything else, and found cigarettes. And right there, a couple of paces from the dead man, the boy and I shared a smoke, and we stashed what was left, ten more cigarettes, a treasure considering the circumstances and the fact that my wife had forbidden me from smoking long before the war began, when I stopped being her employee and started being her lover. I don’t see anything wrong with kids smoking when they’re young, because that’s how I became a man, and though now they tell me it’s very bad, I’m not a doctor nor do I want to be one, and so I have no reason to pay any mind to what the medical experts say. This was not the kid’s first cigarette, that much was certain, because he didn’t cough or anything, and he took drags like the manliest of sailors.

When we’d smoked the cigarettes, we went back together, the kid and I, not whistling exactly, I wouldn’t say that, but almost, as when it came down to it, we were free from blame. I told the remaining members of the group—the driver, the water owner, and our two wives—that the dam workers had run off and were now traveling alone at their own risk, even though this wasn’t true. Nobody seemed to care that much, since the little soup there was would now spread further among us. The fewer people sit down to eat, the more you can eat, as my townspeople used to say. When she took me aside and asked me, I told her the truth, because I don’t know how to lie to her. I told her that one man had killed the other over wine and then he’d taken off running, and I only lied about the cigarettes, which was a mistake because she knew it from my breath, but she forgave me and even asked me for one to smoke after dinner, and that temptation of hers toward my vice gave us a good laugh. Then she set about making the soup, and I have to say that she worked magic, fixing a broth out of what there was, and there was nothing. She thickened it with berries and a chewed-up rabbit bone the kid had found half buried and dug up with his fingernails, and she gave it body with leaves, fragrant herbs, and what was left of a can of herring, and so, with almost no water, she made broth for the six of us, with enough left for seconds. She used the dead soldier’s helmet as a pot. We were all very hungry, but she didn’t get anxious, nor did she rush, and she stirred the soup so much with that same rabbit bone that it seemed like the entire world revolved around her wrist. Without the idiots from the dam or that fool who’d carried the water container, now that we were only the two water owners, the driver, and the two of us with the boy, it struck me that the group had more of a future and, though I didn’t say it out loud, I had the sensation that at least when it came to this we all agreed, because, for a good long while, as she stirred and stirred the soup with that makeshift spoon, I think we felt good and almost like a family, despite being far away from all that was ours and not close to anything at all.

To sleep, we lay close to the fire, which had already sunk to embers and could warm us without the threat of flames. The driver was very tall, and he lay a little farther away so as not to burn his feet, and I lay close to the driver, though trying not to touch him, and she put her head on my chest, and in the triangle we made between us went the boy, and beside my wife lay the water owner’s wife, and as they got along splendidly there was no problem with them being so close, and beside the water owner’s wife lay her husband, the man who’d married the water without deserving it, the one who might be carrying a gun. We’d walked so much and had such a strange day that we all quickly surrendered to sleep. Through a half-opened eye, I saw the kid move and then get up, and this worried me a little, but when I heard him pee I calmed down, and I put my arm around her more tightly, and slept.

I’m not one to tell my dreams, because hearing other people’s dreams strikes me as the most boring thing in the world, so let’s just say that I dreamed of the soup, and around and around in the soup, and soup and more soup, and everything we’d been before burning our house seemed to fit inside that soup in the dead soldier’s helmet, and there was nothing else in my dreams but the thickness of that damn soup and that’s how it was until we woke.

 

At dawn, I was first very glad to leave my nightmare behind, then scared to death because as soon as I heard birds singing, I opened my eyes to a gun in my face.

It seemed that the water owner had indeed been carrying a hidden gun, but it was Julio pointing the thing at me, Julio our boy, and he was doing it as a game, with no intention of killing me. I took the gun from him and hid it in my trousers. It was a small weapon, an Astra, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, an odd pistol made for the rich, a collector’s item, but of the kind that never fails, limited series. I was never in the army because I wasn’t drafted in my day, but I know a little about short guns, and long guns, too. Coming from the country as I do, I’m fond of shooting, not only to fell wild animals but also to chase them away, and when you’re out there alone, and I was very much alone as a kid, it’s better to be armed than naked.

Since the others were all sleeping and the water owner was still snoring with his mouth open, I guessed that Julio had taken the gun from him without anyone knowing. It goes without saying that I scolded the boy, gesturing severely but not raising my voice, so that I wouldn’t wake the others, and then I started thinking about what to do with the damn pistol. If I gave it back to its owner, that is to say the water owner, I’d curry his favor, but I already had his favor through our wives, and if I didn’t return it, I’d strip him of some power and status, because without a gun he wouldn’t be able to defend the water we had left, nor could he go around giving orders with that same authoritative tone. If he got suspicious, that too could work to my advantage, and help protect my family. If he suspected the driver, he’d be left without knowing the way to the transparent city; if he suspected me, he’d be left alone with the driver without knowing who had the gun; if he was suspicious of all of us and went out alone with his wife, I’d be left with the driver and his map and the gun and without anyone to order me around—in other words, I’d become the center of our group, no one to tell me when to stop or keep going. As I considered this, the kid laughed quietly like he knew what I was thinking, and he even seemed gleeful about what his mischief had wrought. At that very moment, I decided to teach him a lesson. Sometimes, with children, there are only a few chances to teach them right from wrong, so you have to take advantage of the ones you get. Decision made, I carefully approached the water owner so as not to disturb our sleeping wives, and I woke him gently, barely touching his shoulder. Then, silently, I handed him his gun, and the man put it away and thanked me and stood up and gave me a hug. The boy Julio watched all of it without understanding a thing, and when I returned to his side I gave him an explanation that seemed, at the time, the best one. What’s not right, I said, looking into his eyes, is wrong, and it never results in any good. The best way to get ahead in life, I added, is to have a clear conscience.

With the little noise we made, or perhaps because they were almost done with their own dreams, the women woke. The driver kept on snoring until the water owner roused him with the tip of his foot. When I saw the way he pushed his boot into the driver, I felt a pang of regret at having given back the gun, but I didn’t regret it altogether because I was trying to teach the boy something, not to change the general order of things.

The women freshened up the way bears do, with saliva, as what was left in the water container wasn’t enough for bathing, and, in fact, sip by little sip, the rest of it was gone. Without water, the only things left to establish authority were the map and, of course, the gun, which just the kid and I knew existed, besides, obviously, the man who owned it.

As soon as we’d all stretched, we got moving again. Since there were so few of us now, there was no need for orders. The driver opened the map and said, this way, and that’s the way we went.

As we left the thicket of trees, the land began to slope downward, and while the day before had been a difficult upward climb, today’s walk was happily downhill. She no longer walked beside the water owner’s wife, but with me, arm in arm, the boy Julio fluttering around us. It was a beautiful day, and for a while we forgot the war and everything else, and simply walked. We went a long time without water, but nobody complained, and we left the mountains behind us and reached a field so vast we couldn’t see where it ended, with grass so tall it reached our waists. She bit into a stalk for its water and sap. I felt like a fool for being from the country and not having thought of that first. We chewed the green grass, like cows, and we noticed, or at least I noticed, that this strengthened our legs and cleared the head. We were gnawing on our strange breakfast when the patrol appeared.

First we heard the helicopter blades, and when we looked up at the cloudy sky it was already upon us, shaking the grass and blowing wind through our hair and clothes, and the women’s skirts flew up almost all the way. We thought the helicopter might descend, but it didn’t, and because we were watching it, we didn’t see the army tank approaching, crushing the grass.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, said a lieutenant in uniform, the same uniform worn by my sons, belonging to our side of the war.

Good morning, we said in unison.

Where are you going? the lieutenant said, holding his machine gun up to his face, to which we responded that we were going where we’d been told to go, to the transparent city. To be honest, the water owner said it, and the rest of us just nodded. The lieutenant then asked for our papers and we handed them over. I gave him the papers for all three of us, hers, mine, and the boy’s, and although his were fake, they’d been acceptable to the zone agent, all in order. The lieutenant admitted as much, and, on seeing that everything was legal and aboveboard, he relaxed a bit and lowered his weapon. The driver approached him and respectfully showed the lieutenant the map, in hopes that he might offer some suggestion. You’re headed the wrong way, the lieutenant told us, you’re at least thirty kilometers east of the route, and, taking out a pen, he drew the correct path on the map and then pointed in the right direction. We’d take you ourselves, he said, but there are enemies in the area and we’re on a different mission.

We understood perfectly, and thanked him. As we passed the tank, she asked about our sons, but the lieutenant, a polite man, explained that the army was very big and it was impossible to know all the soldiers. The most curious thing was that when the water owner dared ask for water, the lieutenant told him that water was extremely expensive at this time because of the lack of rain and the sabotage of the wells and the price gouging of those in charge of reservoirs. Even so, and because he was a good man, he gave us a canteen and told us that if we didn’t get lost on the road, that should be enough to get us to the city, parched, but alive.

The water owner’s wife asked how far away we were exactly, and the lieutenant replied that at a good pace it might take the rest of the day, a good night of rest—as it was no use traveling in the dark—and one more morning. It didn’t seem like enough water for so much time, but why ask for more when it wouldn’t be given? He did tell us, though, of an abandoned hotel along the way where we might sleep under a roof and possibly scrounge a thing or two to eat and drink, as it hadn’t been empty for very long. It was an enemy hotel, and all of this was enemy territory, so there was no need to worry about taking whatever we found. That said, his own soldiers had already sacked the place a couple of times, so we shouldn’t expect to find much. That’s what the lieutenant told us before turning the tank around and carrying on his patrol of the area. The helicopter hovered at a watchful distance while we talked, and I imagine it had weapons aimed at us the entire time. When the army tank left, the helicopter flew away and the grass went still and the noise stopped, and for this we were grateful, since with the lieutenant we’d had to shout to be heard.

It took us a couple of hours to get all the way across the field, and we must have gotten fleas or something because we spent the next two hours scratching ourselves incessantly. The kid Julio threw himself on the ground and rubbed himself against it like a goat, though who knows whether he did it because he itched that much or because he wanted to amuse us. If it was the latter, he was successful, as we all laughed so hard that we got even thirstier. My wife was the one who told him to stop acting like a clown. She treats him more like a son, or a nephew, while I sometimes forget myself and think he’s some sort of toy, here to entertain us. She’s reminded me of this, she’s scolded me and rightly so, and I’ve had no choice but to accept it. When she scolds me, she always does it so sweetly that it’s almost a pleasure, she doesn’t treat me like I’m stupid but like she’s concerned for me and my feelings. Especially when, like now, she has to reprimand me in front of strangers. I never hold any resentments against her, and if I get angry, which I sometimes do just like anyone else in the world, the anger fades as soon as I remember how much she’s given me in life, and the little she’s asked for in return.

After we emerge from the large field, we see the hotel the lieutenant told us about. Though it isn’t very far away, it’s going to be hard to get there because it’s at the top of a steep hill, with only one road. Setting foot on gravel has made me feel better; even though I’m more of a country person, I like to know where I’m headed, and roads are always a more direct route than dirt paths, above all when they aren’t the dirt paths you know. As we climb, I have to take the kid into my arms because he’s so tired, and I would have carried him piggyback, since that’s more comfortable, if it weren’t for the pain in my spine. I’ve got two crushed vertebrae from when I fell off the reaping machine like an idiot, out of carelessness. It doesn’t bother me too much, and I’m only reminded of it when it rains or when I carry something heavy. At home she’d give me salves that did me a lot of good. Her hands are strong but soft, and she gives massages like the ones I imagine professionals give, and I say imagine because in all my life nobody has ever touched my back but her. It’s not as if I hadn’t been with other women before her, because I had, it’s just that there was never affection with any of them. Before she talked to me, I was little more than a brute when it came to socializing, but I was a very diligent worker, that much I can say. At school I learned enough to read and do some arithmetic, and at thirteen my father sent me to a farm as an apprentice, and at eighteen I was already the foreman, and from then on my wife’s first husband looked to me to oversee the land that later became mine. About that man, who was her husband and my boss, I can only speak well of him, as he never treated me badly and he paid me without fail and even threw in little bonuses because he was so happy with my work. He was much older than her, but he treated her well and with care, though he wasn’t a husband in the sense of being a man for what a young woman needs, he couldn’t give her children, nor did he try. The crueler gossips used to say that when he drank he liked to look at the boys who worked on the estate, who labored on the land or in the stables, but neither she nor I had any proof whatsoever of that. Some say that she married up, just as I did later, but in a very different way, because she was from a good name with little land, and he was the exact opposite. I had neither thing. The truth is, he died of old age, almost painlessly, and two years after his burial, more than enough time for mourning, I went up to my wife’s bedroom for the first time, and two months later we married at the altar, and a short time later our first son, Augusto, was born. If you insist on doing the math, it’s clear that we conceived before marriage, but I don’t believe we’re the first couple or the last whose desire precedes the wedding bells. Plus, our region isn’t as refined as the capital, all sorts of things went on around there, everyone lived in their own way, and as long as the scandals weren’t too out of control, no one caused a ruckus. There might be rumors, sure, but rumors are drowned out if you work hard and make enough noise with the hammer and anvil of your own life. And if you do hear them, you ignore them, and if for whatever reason you can’t, you take out your shotgun and make them shut up. I’ve shut up more than one smartass without firing a single shot, just by taking my Remington on walks around the hills, or to public holidays, where everyone can see. The Remington takes six shells, and once I went to the town bar and declared that the first twelve people to question whether I had the right to be master of my land would be answered with a bullet each, and then, if the whispers continued, I’d go home for more shells and dole out more answers. Of course, nobody said a word, and I drank my wine, prouder than the captain of a ship, and after that I never returned to the bar and rarely went into town.

None of that matters anymore, the house is burned and who knows whether we’ll ever set foot on our land again, and in the new city I imagine that, with people from different places living in close quarters, nobody will know anything about anyone, and there won’t be any pasts to condemn or hide. She, the boy Julio, and I will be like everybody else, which will be both good and bad. I don’t think it’ll be hard for me, since I was born without anything to my name, but I don’t know what it’ll be like for her, given that she was born the heiress of a lost estate and then married into a real one. True, she’s strong and has a good imagination, something I don’t have, and imagination makes everything more bearable, makes you less likely to curse your circumstances. So maybe I’ll be the one to struggle more with suddenly having nothing after having grown used to the good life.

When we reached the abandoned hotel, the kid was fast asleep in my arms, and she, much as she tried to hide it, was exhausted, and I, why deny it, was wiped out. The hotel was more of a spa riddled with sulfurous pools, and now that they were stagnant and deserted they smelled the way you’d imagine it smells in hell. If we were going to sleep there, we’d have to sleep on the porch, avoiding the direction of the wind; it was nauseating to step inside, so only the driver and I entered to see whether we could find anything to drink or to fill our stomachs. Just as the lieutenant had said, soldiers had been through, and even a herd of pigs couldn’t have left the place in a worse state. It’s startling the way people treat what isn’t theirs, that urge to destroy everything that many doubtlessly have inside them but that emerges only when allowed to—when, without authorities to keep them in line, people unleash the most brutal parts of themselves and charge at everything in a terrifying rage. I wanted to believe, when I saw the inside of the hotel—the overturned tables, the shattered dishes, the excrement, the broken windows—that my two sons would never do anything like that, no matter how bad the war or how soldierly they’ve become. You always hear about atrocities in war zones, where the insanity of it all gives soldiers free rein to go savage, but I want to think that we’ve raised our sons to have more sense than that and to restrain their own behavior even when nobody’s controlling them. In any case, the driver and I searched the entire hotel, which wasn’t small, our faces covered with handkerchiefs to ward off the stench. We looked like two bandits from a Wild West movie, but as for stealing (though it’s not really stealing to claim abandoned things), we couldn’t, because there was nothing to take. Only a few curtains to use as blankets for the cold, and that was it, as the mattresses, and there were dozens in there, were soaked in urine, blood, or worse. I didn’t want to imagine what had happened in there, not for a second, but I hoped the hotel had been empty when the soldiers arrived, that no one was here to receive them, especially any women, since we all know what some soldiers could do to girls they find defenseless and alone.

There were no dead bodies in sight, but there was blood everywhere and there were bullet holes in the walls, like people had been shot. The driver and I sensibly agreed not to let the women and child come in, since the slightest glimpse inside this place was enough for a thousand nightmares, and in any case the stench had already made the ladies vomit the little they’d eaten in the past two days.

We went back out to the porch with our bad news, empty-handed with the exception of the curtains, which would at least make good blankets, and which were well received. It was already dark and the women were shivering, but the boy was already sleeping sweetly on the wooden porch, and it did me good to see he wasn’t the fussy type, that he was a hardy kid. Nobody raised the question of food for fear of getting hungrier, but the water owner had a surprise for us that he generously shared. In his boot he’d hidden a tube of condensed milk that, though it wasn’t much, helped us catch our breath and refresh our brains with sugar, which we’d sorely needed—lack of sweetness can cloud your thoughts. The bad part, of course, was that it made us all thirsty, first the ladies and then the kid, who sipped his portion while half asleep, the way kids do when they’re hungry and tired at the same time.

The condensed milk paste stuck to our throats, and the little we each got from the canteen wasn’t enough to relieve them, and it seemed, at least to me, that the paste didn’t even reach our stomachs. With that, we went to sleep, trying not to dwell on what couldn’t be helped, and dreaming—at least I was dreaming, though I think we all were—of arriving at the transparent city in the morning and, finally, drinking tons of water. She and I curled up with the boy, and she whispered words of love to me before falling asleep and said she was very proud of me, which I didn’t fully understand, I couldn’t quite tell what was behind it, but it made me feel hot inside and helped me close my eyes with something other than sadness, to forget for a moment the rest of my needs. It’s astonishing to realize that love can nourish and calm you even in the worst of circumstances, or precisely and with good reason in the worst of circumstances. Since I don’t know how to talk the way she does, and words of love don’t come naturally to me, I didn’t respond to her whispers. Instead, not wanting to seem less affectionate, and to make up for what was missing, I embraced her with all my strength and kissed her on the lips and stroked her hair until I heard her breathing deeply, and only when I knew she was asleep could I allow myself to drift off as well.

It must have been the end of the night, no more than an hour before dawn, when I woke to the creaking of the porch. As soon as I opened my eyes, I saw the water owners and the driver on their feet, ready to leave like robbers, quietly, trying to trick us in our sleep. They had the canteen and the map, thinking, I imagine, that the water would help them arrive in a better state, and better three than six. Knowing that the water owner was armed, that I myself had given him back the gun, it didn’t occur to me to protest, and though I didn’t like this dirty game, I thought that if the city was as close as the lieutenant had said, less than half a day’s journey away, she and the kid and I would be perfectly able to get there on our own. If the city was big enough to take in all the evacuated regions, it would be visible from a distance, and since the lieutenant had clearly pointed east, we’d have to be idiots not to reach it. Once there, I’d find that damn water owner and settle the score, I swore this to myself as I pretended to sleep and watched from the corner of my eye as the three traitors set off, leaving us lying there without the slightest remorse. It goes without saying that I regretted giving back the gun and not using it to kill them both, the water owner and the driver—not the lady, of course, as she almost certainly wasn’t to blame for anything, and even if she was, I’m not a pig and would never kill a woman. And despite their betrayal, I wouldn’t have been able to kill the other two to get the canteen or the map, I don’t think I could have done it, I don’t have a murderer’s heart, so my regret for not killing them was fake, not sincere. Sometimes, when you’re gripped by rage, you think horrible things just to release them from your soul and to realize that you aren’t really capable of doing them. When I arrived at the town bar that day to threaten the gossips, I didn’t intend to shoot anyone; I’ve never harmed a human being with my own hands in my life. As a matter of fact, if I’m going to tell things the way they really happened, I showed up in the bar with my shotgun but didn’t say a word or threaten anyone, and now I don’t know why I exaggerated so much before. I suppose we all like to tell things in a way that makes us seem braver, even if we end up looking childish and dumb. I’m not a show-off, but sometimes, without any reason, people who lack glory go out and invent some. Basically, at the bar, I didn’t say much, all I did was sit there with my shotgun—not so strange at all, as I was coming from the hunt and had partridges tied to my belt and a rabbit in my pouch—and I drank my wine, paid, and left as people whispered maliciously around me, and if I didn’t return to the bar, it was out of shame, and I don’t know what I was thinking with all that hot air before, when I’ve never been like that nor have I ever wanted to be. In the same vein, I let those three go more out of fear of the water owner’s gun than any other reason, and there’s no point in searching for deeper explanations. I’m not a liar by nature, and I’m no good at fooling myself. And if I have to apologize for lying, I’ll do it and let that be the end of it.

My mind was going in circles and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I slipped away from her and the boy, out from under the heavy curtain, and found a spot to sit and watch the sunrise. At least with this, God was generous. As the night faded I could see, from the edge of the porch and not far from the foot of the mountain, a glass dome reflecting the first rays of sun so brilliantly that you’d have to be blind not to see it. I estimated that, at a good pace, we’d be there in three hours, and I waited for my family to wake up, calmer now, eager to give them the good news as a kind of fortifying breakfast. I wasn’t sure what we’d find in that city, but the people who called it transparent weren’t lying, and one thing was certain, after two days of starving, it was thrilling to see.

When they woke, she and the boy stared at the dome with the same astonishment and urge to get there, and so we immediately set off toward it.