. .”
“Mister. . Clarke, isn’t it? Your name sounds English.”
“I am English.”
“And what has brought you so remarkably far from your homeland?”
“Studies, nothing more.”
“Historical studies?”
“Natural history.”
“Botany? Zoology?”
“The second rather than the first.”
“Then I must show you the little dogs we keep. But after breakfast, if you’ll do me the honor of accompanying me.”
They went over to the fires. These Indians had few possessions. Little more than blankets and clothing carefully folded on the stones, and some very artistic pots, all of them out on display, nothing kept in trunks or bags. As is the case with natural and fortunate peoples, they themselves were their only riches. Except that, although for the moment they seemed relaxed and contented, they bore signs of not always having been so. Their bodies were crisscrossed with great weals, scars that had turned pink and scarlet due to the lack of sunlight. Their chieftain was the worst in this respect, his skin offering a veritable showcase of knife cuts. The raised area next to the fire where Pillán brought the Englishman and Carlos was occupied entirely by men. The women were further off: plump, attractive creatures whose aggressively indigenous features contrasted with their white, barely ocher, skins. Apart from those who were fanning the concoction designed to help Gauna’s breathing — which seemed to be doing him a world of good — the other women stood idly by. Clarke surmised that the Indians liked an easy life. He could tell simply by the way they moved. Not that they moved all that much, and besides, who could tell what was going on in the more distant chambers? There must have been about two hundred Indians sitting or lying about around fires that gave off a brilliant light but little heat (which was unnecessary anyway). The atmosphere was one of a calm evening get-together after a day’s hunting or traveling, a reunion that was drawing to an end as everyone considered
going to sleep, the only oddity being that it was ten in the morning. They were immediately served beer and cakes; the Indians limited themselves to watching them eat. When they had finished their meal, the conversation began.
“I envy you,” Clarke said impulsively, “the calm you enjoy in the. . underground.”
“It’s not always this way,” Pillán replied. “We’re a very warlike race.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“For countless generations.”
That was too vague to be the whole truth. But the Englishman, who out in the wilderness had become used to pursuing the truth by roundabout means, let this comment pass.
“Have you not tried directing your aggression against external enemies?”
“The thing is, we don’t actually have any enemies. It would cause too many problems. For a start, we’d have to go outside.” Pillán paused for a moment, then declared in a solemn tone: “As far as the vagaries of fate are concerned, we prefer to follow the line of least resistance.”
Clarke inquired about their means of subsistence. These were simple in the extreme: a little mining, some aphotic grains they used for making flour, a minimum of hunting and nighttime robbery. They obtained drink by bartering the high quality coal they dug from their caves. Their arts and crafts? These were reduced to two: not to tire themselves too much, and to congratulate themselves on anything that turned out well. They practiced a fair amount of gymnastics, and were comprehensively promiscuous in their enjoyment of sex. Most unusually for Indians, they had no interest in games of chance. They played music, mostly on portable organs such as Clarke had already seen in Chile. They did so very sparingly however, as any philharmonic excess might spoil what appeared to be their favorite social pastime: sleep. Recumbent bodies were scattered throughout the cave; all conversation was in low voices, and the dogs were silent. Occasionally a muted croaking could be heard: this was their edible frog farm, Pillán explained. Carlos was struck by the sight of several Indians gliding past them at ground level without moving a muscle, as though they were on a moving belt. The chieftain invited them to go and look: it was a stream of water on which small boats circulated. He told them that several of these streams crossed the chamber, as well as some freshwater springs. The Indians thought, quite reasonably, that the rock floor of the cave must float on a huge reservoir of deep water. The temperature was the same throughout the year. Gas never leaked out, nor were there any sudden seasonal falls in pressure. They could not recall any seismic activity — if there had been any, they would have left in a flash: for them, the caves had no mythical dimension, they were merely convenient, an effective way of living.
Thoughtful, Clarke stared up at the roof. The dark recesses cast back their blind gaze.
“Do you go outside much?”
“As little as possible. Some of us, never.”
One thing intrigued Clarke. He had known many tribes of America, with an incredible diversity of lifestyles, but one thing was common to them alclass="underline" their constant and vital relationship with the stars. He could not imagine a primitive culture doing without them. He said as much to Pillán, who paused for a moment’s respectful consideration before giving his reply.
“Well now, Mister Clarke. There are two aspects to that question. The first is the relation we have to the truth, or more precisely to meaning. The reason you consider us primitive (no, don’t worry, I didn’t take it amiss) can only come from the fact that, unlike you, we do not have a God, or a monotheist system, to provide a general framework of meaning for us. We Indians ‘still’ find ourselves at the stage of potentiality: a sign is not guaranteed by reference to a meaning, but by its position within a specific framework. It is also the case, and I think this is the key to your puzzlement, that since the stars are pure perception, are purely visible without any possibility of becoming tangible, they need constantly to demonstrate their reality, if possible every night. That is the paradox of an imaginary system which needs to be real in order to generate all its images.
“Now, look at our own black, immutable sky, our rock. It’s exactly the same. Points of darkness replace points of light. It is we who are the stars, the living memory of our lives, lived without days or nights on the margins of time. Meaning continues to exist however, whether or not there is a God or a sky. It may be that to go on believing in ourselves demands an extra dose of energy from us, but we do not regret it. We dream a lot, because we sleep so much.”
He paused before continuing:
“As for the other aspect of the question, which as I understand it concerns happiness, I can offer you no such clear-cut reasons. Nature is man’s happy passion, and the stars confirm that. That is all they do: such is their function. But here beneath the earth we are the most passionate of people, because we set no store by the conservation of life. It could be said that the sickness is the cure. Indifference contains within it one supreme value: the abandonment of everything, the infinite virtuality of the instant.”
Gauna yawned ostentatiously.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Clarke said, “but you wouldn’t know if a lady by the name of Rondeau’s Widow has passed by here recently, would you?”
“Yes. That good-for-nothing. . she was here a few days ago, asking us to lend her a young woman.”
“Did you?”
“Not on your life. Do you take us for traders in human flesh? We asked her why she didn’t turn to her relative Coliqueo, who is staying near here. . ”
“And what did she say to that?”
“That Coliqueo had suffered a devastating surprise attack and was in no state to conduct any kind of transaction.”
“She lied to you. .”
“I suspected that from the start.”