8: The Underground
When they awoke, the sun must have been high, even though it was still invisible behind the fog, and cast little more than a diffuse white glow in the center of a bluish-gray expanse remarkable above all for its immobility. An immobile world was one without light, even in full daytime. Clarke was awakened by Gauna repeatedly shaking his arm: and although he always prided himself on being instantly alert, this time he was sunk so deep in a mindless stupor, that he had no idea who he was, or what he was doing there. This was explained in part by what had recently happened to him, but also by what was happening to him now. They were surrounded by a number of upright figures, who loomed through the mist. There weren’t very many of them, although it took Clarke some time to realize this. He looked at Gauna, who as usual merely shrugged his shoulders. Clarke had sat on his saddle without being aware of it, and now searched for his boots. While he was pulling them on, his mind began to function. First of all in the past, reviewing the dreadful events of the previous night, then in the present. Naturally enough, he surmised that the present was a consequence of the immediate past, and that the strangers were, like them, fugitives from the disaster at Coliqueo’s camp. But he only had to draw closer to them to see this was not the case: there had been a kind of break in the night, and these were new people, the product of new circumstances, who were coming to greet him. Objectively, this was a relief. They were four pale little men, Indian-looking but smaller and whiter, who wore no paint or grease. They were dressed in bright colors, and seemed in fact a little overdressed for the season, wearing caps as well. Clarke bade them good-day, and they replied, without much of a smile but without being too curt either. He asked who they were, and it was only when they replied that he realized they did not speak the same language. He was momentarily perplexed. The Indian who spoke did so for perhaps three-quarters of a minute; as Clarke had not grasped his opening words, he lost all the rest as well. He turned for help toward Gauna, who was a good linguist. There he met another surprise. The gaucho had gone as white as a sheet, his eyes had turned up and a wheezing moan came from his gaping mouth. He was suffering an asthma attack, which must have been hours coming on, although in that case Clarke was surprised he had not lit a fire to burn his medicinal powders. He offered to do so for him now, but Gauna shook his head firmly and gestured as if to say: “carry on, carry on,” so Clarke turned back to face the Indians.
“Do you speak Voroga?” he asked.
“Of course. We are Vorogas,” the man who had spoken earlier replied. Clarke understood him perfectly. He suddenly realized he had understood before as well. They had said: “Good day to you, we trust we have not interrupted your sleep, but it was hard for us to contain our curiosity, because visitors here are so rare.” Why then had he imagined he had not understood? The logical explanation was to blame the difficulty he had felt waking up, but on reflection an illogical explanation was probably closer to the mark.
The ten languages in the Mapuche family, which Clarke had begun to study a decade and a half earlier, were distinguished from the other languages of the world by one essential feature: they were languages that were exquisitely deferential to foreigners, and not because their speakers chose to be, but because of their very structure, at least in their spoken form. When someone learns a foreign language, he inevitably commits all kinds of mistakes, even after lengthy study and frequent practice. Native speakers also make mistakes, except that they are not so much errors as the natural deformations that a prolonged automatic use of a language imperceptibly produces in such a delicate structure. Both kinds of distortion occurred in Mapuche, with the result that no one who began to speak one of their languages sounded like a beginner. Whether anyone else understood was another matter.
That other matter was also an interesting curiosity. Mistakes, bad habits, the stylizations of speech, all immediately appeared as a manifestation of art. Art may be understood in many different ways according to different cultures and ages, but these definitions all have one thing in common: art, the thing that is art, is that which does not demand understanding, since it is pure action whose meaning is a question of subjective choices. Formalities, intrinsic translations, were at the very heart of all the Mapuche languages. For this reason they had an old proverb which contained the key to all their behavior: “Do no more than talk.” Crossing their eyes, staring at the ground, were only a minor part of their meaning. The rest came from their words.
This then was all that Clarke’s misunderstanding amounted to: an instant. Fleeting as are all instants, even when placed end to end as it were, it passed, and he was now in animated conversation with the group of Indians.
“Do you live nearby?”
“Just down here.”
“Which leader do you follow?”
“Pillán is the name of our present monarch. If you are not in such a hurry as to make a short halt impossible, we should like to introduce you to him. We receive so few visits!”
“Pillán? I have not heard the name.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s only very recently taken up the position.”
“Ah, yes? Did he succeed to it?”
“After a certain fashion. In reality, I am sorry to tell you that we have suffered a power struggle, a civil war one might say — if that were not too grand a term for our tiny, submerged society.”
“My condolences. A civil war is still a civil war, even if it takes place within a single family.”
“By an extension of its very meaning!”
“If you like.”
A silence.
“Well. . would you do us the honor?”
“As far as I’m concerned, there’s no problem.” At this point, Clarke thought it desirable to introduce a note of democracy. “Wait until my friend here can speak, and I’ll ask his opinion.”
Gauna was still gasping for breath. The Indian who had been doing the talking made a suggestion which combined the most delicate courtesy with the most calculated sadism.
“Ask him now, so he can be considering his answer. After all, he can hear.”
These words struck home. Gauna rolled up his blanket and slung it on his horse’s back.
“To judge by his attitude,” Clarke said, lowering his voice, “I would guess that he agrees. Where are your horses?”
“Nowhere.”
“Pardon?”
“We don’t use horses.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s nothing to be so surprised at. We don’t need them, you see.”
“I don’t understand how you can do without such a useful animal if you live on the plains.”
“That’s just it: we don’t live on the surface.”
“Gentlemen, we’ll go with you.”
“Leave your horses right here. Josecito — ” he pointed to one of his followers “ — will stay to keep an eye on them, although it’s hardly necessary. For your peace of mind.”