In the campaña—the backcountry—of Paraguay distance is calculated in leguas. A legua is about as much distance as a man would walk in a day. Juan Blas was on horseback. Juan was an estançero, a cowhand. He was riding along the Santa Ni road. Juan Blas had two leguas to ride before he would get to Santa Ni. He was going to join the big estançia in Santa Ni. His mare Tyta was a good horse. She had a quick step. Juan calculated another three, possibly four, hours before they would see the first lights of the fires that warmed the ranchos of Santa Ni. They had another village to go through—Carolina—where they could rest and eat. It was already dark and the moon would not rise until after midnight. It would be a good time to rest. They would be in Carolina in about an hour. Tyta was tired. Juan was hungry.
“Soon my Tyta, we can stop and rest and eat. There is good grass for you in Carolina.” Tyta responded to Juan’s voice by shaking her head as if to say “No,” and with her “No” she stopped short, shied to the right and whinnied. Juan held the reins tight.
“What is it,” said Juan, “a snake?” A quick rustle of dry leaves confirmed his guess. Juan heard a scream. A woman’s. Short and sharp, it pierced the night air like the sharp point of a knife. Juan spurred Tyta into a trot. Another scream cut the air. As he got closer, he heard a moan follow the scream. Juan saw a small, shabby rancho off the road. Like all ranchos of the campaña it had a high peaked thatched roof. Underneath the roof the rancho was divided into two halves. One half was completely walled with the red-clay mud of the campaña, with no opening for a window on the three outside walls. The inside wall running across the rancho, beneath the roof had a small opening-doorway. The second half of the rancho was wall-less. The two posts that supported the roof were visible. The walled room was the bedroom. The wall-less room was kitchen and everything else. Pots and kettles were hung on a hooked wire hanging down from one of the roof beams. A wood fire was underneath. Juan saw two children crouched on their haunches huddled before the fire. A small, sootblackened kettle hung from the wire over the fire. That’s good, thought Juan, hot water for a maté. Juan swung off Tyta, tied her to one of the posts, and approached the children and the fire.
“Buenas tardes ijitas,” he said.
“Buenas tardes,” they responded.
Juan switched to Guaranì, the language of the people of Paraguay, the language of the campaña. “eM-ba-eh?” What’s wrong? He asked the children.
They responded in Guaranì. “My mother is sick.” Another scream came from the bedroom.
“Whose rancho is this?” asked Juan.
“Mama’s,” said the oldest, the girl.
“And your father.”
“Naipòri taita.” There is no father.
“And your mother’s name?” asked Juan.
The children seemed frightened now, and again the girl spoke, “Maria Leone,” she said, and cast her eyes as if to say, Now you know.
So that’s it, thought Juan. Maria Leone. She was in there. He was at her rancho. Maria Leone. La Puta. The hoo-er. He knew all about Maria Leone. He had listened to stories about her with disgust and interest and regret. What a pity such a woman existed. Some people said she was more than just simpleminded. She was akatavy, half-crazy. Of what good was she to anybody but the vilest who took her, slept with her when they couldn’t find anyone else and left children like these behind. Juan turned to the children. Pobresitas, he thought. What a life before them, trailing after their mad whore of a mother for the rest of their lives. Another scream snapped his attention to the room.
He said to the oldest child, “No tiene luz?” He asked for a light. She brought him a little tin can, filled with petrol, which had a tightly wrapped and twisted cloth stuck into it. She lit the cloth from the fire and handed the lamp to Juan. Juan entered the dark room. There she was, squirming in a leather-thonged mattress of a bed, big with another life inside her.
“Puta!” He spat on the floor. Another poor creatura—he asked himself, God, the swine who fucked her, the dark room?
“Help me,” she pleaded when she saw him. “Help me. I am dying.”
“You should,” he said.
“Please, please, help. I’ll do anything for you if you help. I’ll do anything. Please, whoever you are help me.”
“What can I do?” said Juan. “I only know about cows and horses. I know nothing about this. Isn’t there a woman who can come? Someone in Carolina?”
“No,” she said. “Nobody comes to Maria Leone. They all want me dead. I’m a disease to Carolina.” And she screamed at him. “You dirty bastard! What the hell are you doing here? Did you come here to fuck a dying whore? Fuck off! Fuck off! Let me die! Let me die!” She interrupted herself with another contracted scream and a twist.
Juan went to the bed and pulled down Maria’s skirt. It was bloody. He looked at her naked bulging belly and it seemed low enough. It may soon be time. Mi Diòs, he thought. Make it like a horse. He put his two hands on her belly and felt all over. He felt low for the head. He tried to feel for the legs. He bent his head to her belly and listened for the heart. He felt the kick but wasn’t sure of the heart. At least he felt the kick. He waited, standing over her, while she looked at him, madly, knowing and also praying mi Diòs make it like a horse. When the time came again and she screamed, he pushed on her belly but he was too late. She said, “You're killing me! You're killing me!” Juan stopped. He felt someone watching. He quickly turned around. The children like statues, were standing in the opening.
“Cherejàpe!” Go away! He angrily shouted and they quietly turned and went to the fire.
Juan leaned over Maria Leone’s body again and wondered if it was too soon. This time he thought, I would just feel it and know for sure. He waited again. His two hands cupped her belly firmly. When she screamed again he was sure.
*
Juan came out of the room and asked the oldest child what her name was.
“Pia.”
“Bueno” he said, “bring me a large tin if you have one and lots of paper.” Pia returned with both. Juan disappeared into the room and emerged again with the tin. Pia looked at Juan questioningly. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you won't understand about this, but your mother and the baby are all right. It’s a boy. Do you have a spade?”
“Yes.” Pia brought one.
“Gracias. I’ll be right back. Boil some water for maté.” He went off behind the rancho into the woods with the tin and the spade.
When he returned he found Pia had already prepared the maté—a gourd filled with yerba tea and a bombilla, a tin straw, inserted in the center of the tea. Pia poured boiling water into the gourd, handed Juan the gourd to drink. Juan slowly sipped the brew through the bombilla. He returned the maté to Pia who refilled the gourd. She continued serving Juan until he had enough to drink, which he indicated by saying Gracias. Then she stopped.
“Well,” Juan said to Pia and the other child. “You have a little brother now to join your family. I called him Cabalitto (because it was so much like a little horse, he thought). Do you have anything to eat?”
“We have a little rice and mandioca—a root like potato,” said Pia.
“And do you have any meat?” Pia shook her head.
“Bueno. There’s some dry meat in my maleta—a two-pocket bag strapped over the neck of a horse. Get it and make something to eat. Your mother needs something to eat now and I also am hungry.” Juan turned to the other child. “And you, little boy, what is your name?”
“His name is Eduardo,” said Pia.
Pia took the meat out of the maleta. It was wrapped in brown oily paper. It was dry, twisted in long strips. It was rich, aged. This meat would need no seasoning. She cut the long strips into small pieces, placed rice into a pot of water and mixed the meat with the rice. Juan went to Tyta. He unsaddled her. He rubbed her back with the sheepskin. He haltered her and led her around the house to the back where there was some grass. Juan took some dry mandioca out of his maleta and placed it on the grass. Tyta lowered her head and began to chew. Juan looked for the well, found it, drew water with the bucket and bought it to Tyta, who thirstily drank.
“We will rest here, Tyta, instead of Carolina, yes? Until the moon rises,” said Juan.
Tyta lowered her head and resumed her munching of mandioca and grass. Juan returned to the well, drew up more water. He took off his shirt, reached down to the mud about the base of the well, rubbed his hands and arms thoroughly with the soft mud and washed it off his hands with the cold well water and then washed his face. Juan dried himself with his shirt and put it on again.
He walked around the rancho. It was very rundown. There was a bit of chacra—farmland—but it was wild with weeds and cactus. The rancho had a good deep well, though with plenty of water, thought Juan. Someone could work the chacra and could grow maize, mandioca, tobacco, and peanuts. Juan knew the woods behind the rancho were probably full of orange, grapefruit, lemon, papaya trees, and bananas, plenty of guava bushes. There was no reason for them to starve. All they needed was a goat or a cow for milk, maybe a pig. Maybe a few bees for honey, some chickens or ducks for eggs and they would be all set.
He returned to the fire and sat down. He took out a small cigar. He had bought fifty of the cigaritos which the elderly women of the campaña made by spitting in the hand, placing a leaf of tobacco on the wet hand and rolling the tobacco leaf on their thighs. The Paraguayan cigar, because women made it, was small, four fingers long, bulged at the middle and tapered at each end. Sometimes one could get a good cigarito. Juan held the cigar to a hot ember till it burned and then he smoked.
“We’ll eat soon,” said Pia.
“Bueno,” said Juan. “I’m hungry. How old are you, Pia?”
“Twelve,” she said.
“And your little brother who doesn’t talk?”
“He’s not four yet and I think he’s a little scared.”
“Are you?” Pia stoked the fire and would not look up or answer. The fire made her face flush. Juan looked hard at Pia. Sure, she’s scared. Who wouldn’t be? Twelve. Soon she would be a woman. Already two little plums stuck out under her dress. They would become grapefruit soon and then what would Pia be? He wondered but did not ask if she knew her father. In the campaña one never asked a child who the father was, especially if a man was living in the house. Very probably the present compañero—partner—was not the father and the question would then be an insult to the mother’s honor, which would mean an insult to the present compañero, which would mean a fight.
Juan looked toward the room. He picked up the lamp and went in. Maria and Caballito were both asleep. The child had been sucking at Maria’s breast and had sucked himself and Maria to sleep. Poor Maria Leone, thought Juan. Her breasts were so small and hung like little bells. If she would only get something to eat and eat regular within two weeks her breasts would fill up with milk and Cabalitto would grow strong.
Maria’s eyes opened. She saw Juan. She smiled. She felt the baby and pressed him deeper and closer to her breast. She looked at Juan.
“How are you feeling now that the pain is gone?” asked Juan in Guarani.
“Y-ponà. Gracias.” Well. Thank you.
“Pia is making something to eat. It will be ready soon.”
“But there is nothing.”
“I have a little meat you have a little rice and mandioca and we eat.”
“You are very kind. Thank you. I’ll pay you back. You’ll see. I’m very strong. Soon I’ll be able to repay you.”
“I don’t want your payment, puta,” snapped Juan.
“It is all I have to give. I don’t understand why you are mad?”
“When will your compañero return?”
“Mi compañero?”
“Si, tu compañero.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? Where did he go? Is he working in Santa Ni? Is he with the estançia?”
“I don’t know if he’s working.”
“Well where is the bastard when you are having his baby?”
“He went away.”
“When?”
“Last month or so with his maleta and his horse.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“No. Not Domingo.”
“Domingo he’s called?”
“Yes, Domingo Portòn.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Why?’
“I can talk to him. Make him come back. Help you and the children.”
“No, not Domingo. He won't come back.”
“Vamos a ver. Well see.”
“He may be in Carolina. Maybe someone at the almaçen—the general store—can tell you.”
“Good. Now, I go. Pia, is the rice ready yet?”
“Si, Señor Juan.”
“Good. Bring some in for your mother. Adios Maria. Bon provecho.”
“Adios Señor Juan. Mil gracias but he won't come back.”
Juan hurried out. Pia handed him a plate of rice and meat chunks. He quickly ate. Then he rose and went to Tyta. He saddled and mounted, said Adios to Pia and Eduardo and rode off.
*
Juan saw a light in the distance and thought that must be from the rancho they had described as Domingo Porton’s at the almaçen. He walked Tyta quickly anxious to get this over with. Why was he doing this, he wondered? Why didn’t he mind his own business? This was not his business. And what would this Domingo think of him messing with this? Why wasn’t he on his way to Santa Ni? To the estançia? He felt better and surer and safer with cattle and with horses than he did with people. He saw a man lying in a woven cord hammock. The figure sat up as the sounds of Tyta’s hoofs came closer to him.
“eMba-y-japà” greeted Juan. Hello.
“Y-ponà” responded the voice from the hammock, “adelante.” I’m well, come along.
“Domingo Portòn?” asked Juan.
“Si,” said Domingo.
“Juan Blas,” said Juan
“Toma siento.” Have a seat. He motioned to a chair.
“Gracias,” said Juan, who took off his hat and sat.
Domingo turned toward the rancho and shouted, “Rosa, bring some maté.”
Rosa came out of the house with the matè. Rosa was a small woman with a small head and long flowing black hair. Large full lips dominated her face. Her body was thin and wiry. She poured the water into the gourd and handed it to Juan. Juan took it and sipped it dry and returned the gourd to Rosa. Rosa filled it and handed it to Domingo. Domingo also sipped the gourd dry. They went back and forth several times. Rosa, of course, did not drink. The server only serves. When Juan said “Gracias,” the drinking stopped. Then talking began.
“Qué tal?” said Domingo. What’s up?
“I’ve come from the rancho of your compañera.”
“Mi compañera?” said Domingo who now swung up and sat upright in the middle of his hammock.
“Si,” said Juan. “Maria Leone. She is sick. She had a baby. Tonight.”
Domingo looked straight at Juan and said with an even tone in his voice, “Rosa is my compañera.”
Juan looked at Rosa and didn’t know what to say. So he said in a jumble, “Ah si. But Maria Leone is sick and she sent me. She needs someone to work the chacra. She said it is your baby—your son and someone must work and get food or the baby will die. And the other children Pia and Eduardo will die and Maria will die.”
Domingo said, “I know no Pia or Eduardo. And who knows who is the father of Maria’s baby? She’s has many compañeros.”
“She said you are the father.”
“If I was the last. Who knows who was the last? What about you? What were you doing at Maria’s?”
Juan bristled at the suggestion and said, “I don’t know Maria. I was riding to Santa Ni tonight when I heard her scream. I went to her rancho. It was the baby. I helped.”
“You helped?”
“Yes, I helped.”
“What do you mean you helped? What do you know about babies?”
“Nothing, I only know about horses and it was the same thing. But this is not good. Maria is sick. Maria needs you and wants you.”
“Maria didn’t send you and I don’t know why you came. And your Pia can work.”
“Pia is a child, and the baby—”
“What about the baby?
“The baby will die if someone doesn’t help.”
“Bueno,” Domingo smiled, “Since you helped already why don’t you help again?”
Juan rose to his feet and said, “Because it is your baby vurro!” *
Domingo leaped out of the hammock with his arms outstretched, fingers scratching for Juan’s throat. Juan stepped aside and smacked Domingo on the side of his head with clenched fists. Domingo, on one knee, reached for his knife in his belt. Juan already had his ready. Again Domingo leaped up towards Juan. Juan grabbed Domingo’s knife wrist with his left hand and spun Domingo around so that his back was before him. Juan kicked hard the back of Domingo’s knee joints, tripping him down, and with one motion Juan swung around with his knife and plunged deep into Domingo’s front right shoulder. Rosa screamed. Domingo twisting in pain, dropped to the ground dropping his knife. Juan stepped hard on Domingo’s neck keeping a firm base on the ground with his heel. Rosa continued screaming.
“Be quiet puta, or I‘ll kill him.” Juan looked down at the frightened, wounded, painfully suffering Domingo. “You scum. I could smash your life out now like an insect.” Instead with a wince of disgust he spat full into Domingo’s face. Juan stepped off Domingo’s neck, picked up Domingo’s knife, threw it into the woods, walked to his horse, mounted and rode away.
*
Juan soon reached the Santa Ni road. Tyta paused. To the right was back, back to Maria Leone’s. To the left was Santa Ni. Juan nudged Tyta to the left.
The moon was out and the night was bright and clear. He felt dirty. If she had regular food to eat she could feed her baby. What would become of Pia? Eduardo? Soon compañeros would come and go through Pia’s life and body. They started early in the campaña. Juan felt disgust for everything. With the human race. With the male race. With himself most of all. It was none of his business. He shouldn’t have gone to the rancho. He wanted to get the taste of all this dirt out of his mouth. He spat. He spurred Tyta into a slow canter and soon they were galloping hard along the road, which was dangerous at night. But he didn’t care. The fresh cold night air brushed swiftly against his face and felt good. Felt clean. He thirsted for more and more air and galloped harder and harder gulping air, forgetting, remembering mixing up his thoughts. Finally the road began to go upwards and he slowed Tyta to a canter then to a trot then to a walk. And they slowly walked up the hill. Soon he would be able to see the lights of Santa Ni. They reached the top and he looked at the lights.
In another hour he would be in Santa Ni. Away from Maria Leone, Pia, Eduardo, Caballito, Domingo, Rosa. Why did he fight Domingo? He didn’t know him. Tomorrow all of Carolina would know he found and beat Domingo. They would say he fought for Maria Leone. This sickened him. He did not fight for her. But why did he fight? Why did he go to Domingo? Why did he help Maria? What business was it of his? And now what would Domingo do? Probably come after him. He’d go to Maria Leone’s looking for him. Not finding him he would kill Maria. And Pia? And Eduardo? And the baby? Juan stopped Tyta. He looked at the lights of Santa Ni. Soy loco, he said to himself. He turned Tyta around and they carefully walked back down the hill.
January 10, 2009
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