Mallén gave another deep sigh, swallowing a mouthful of rain in the process, and made a visible effort to go on speaking:
“Yes, that was our idea. That was the reason for my journey, and I’m not the only one who set out. But everywhere it seems misfortunes have been leaping out at me like hares, so how could I not be depressed? My son, who was accompanying me, turned back with the excuse that he had other business to attend to, all my string of horses except this one met with accidents, and to top it all, I lost my knife and bolas somewhere and can’t find them.”
However hard he tried, Carlos could not contain his laughter.
“Go on, laugh,” said Mallén. “But it is sad. Another time, I might have laughed as well. This afternoon, when I saw it was going to rain, I began to seriously ask myself: ‘What for? What am I doing all this for? What am I living for?’ ”
He could not go on. Clarke snorted nervously. He could understand the shaman’s reasons: he himself always found complications unnecessary, and thought simplicity should always prevail in life: otherwise, it really was not worth living. But at the same time, he was astonished at the shallowness of this man who quite possibly held the future of an empire in his hands, but who could allow such trivial external circumstances as a rainstorm to weaken his resolve. It was a truly breathtaking lack of responsibility. He tried to tell him as much without hurting his feelings. Of course, Mallén did not even want to listen. And since the storm was getting ever stronger, and the chattering of their teeth was becoming unbearable, they left the rest of their discussion for the light of day, rolled themselves in whatever ponchos they could find, and shut their eyes to try to sleep.
In spite of the wet, they managed to do so, and for more than a few hours. The next morning was still cloudy, with occasional drizzle, but they succeeded in lighting a fire thanks to a handful of the excellent coal the chief of the underground world had given them, roasted two chickens Mallén had brought, and made some tea, so that when they returned to the subject they were different men. Even the shaman, perhaps out of embarrassment, seemed more reasonable.
“Where were you headed,” Clarke asked him, “before your. . depression?”
“To Colqán’s camp.”
“To seek reinforcements, I suppose.”
“To activate the offensive-defensive alliance we have with him, which is something different.”
“That’s the way to talk!”
“But they could just as well give me a kick up the backside.”
“Don’t let yourself give in to negative thoughts again. Why would they do that? Isn’t it in their interests as well to fight against Coliqueo?”
“How should I know! They may have made a separate peace with him.”
“That’s taking pessimism too far. We’ll go with you to see Colqán. You sent emissaries to your other allies as well, didn’t you?”
Mallén’s explanations took on a technical slant. Given the complicated nature of the Mapuche confederation’s politics, it could scarcely be otherwise. Although Carlos lost interest (Gauna had never had any), Clarke himself became more and more identified with the problem. Even the shaman roused himself, and became his old self. They had left the metaphysics of simplicity they had touched on the previous night far behind, but the Englishman found he did not regret it. Being based on a semblance of psychology (everyone not only admitted this, but took it as their starting point) the complexities of politics were resolved in a second process of simplification, this time a childish one.
When the rain came on heavily again, they set off. Before they did so, Gauna took Clarke to one side: he wasn’t thinking of getting mixed up in this idiotic conflict, was he? That wasn’t why they were there.
“And why are we here, Mister Gauna, if you would be so kind as to tell me?”
His Englishness came effortlessly to the fore. The gaucho did not insist. His story was falling to pieces: what was real was war, and his diamantine fantasies were relegated to the limbo they should never have left. As for the question of committing himself; Clarke felt as light as the breeze. He could take part in a war as easily as he might play a game of whist. He was aware that Coliqueo would do his utmost to enlist his white allies in the campaign against the Huilliches. But to the white man, an Indian was always an Indian, and deep down they did not care who won. He did not care much either, but this only fueled his enthusiasm: this opportunity to closely observe a war between abstract peoples was too good to miss. And anyway, it made him feel good, and that was enough for him.
So he mounted Repetido, got into step with Mallén’s horse, and the two of them rode off together, talking the whole while about numbers, positions, distances, forces, deterrents and so on. Feeling himself left out, Carlos showed his displeasure by riding ahead to join Gauna.
They had hardly gone four or five leagues when they were surprised to find they had reached their destination.
About a thousand warriors had camped by a creek, making shelters under the tree branches until the rain eased off. Mallén recognized who it was from afar.
“They’re Manful’s men,” he said. Manful was another of the allies sought out by emissaries who had obviously proved more effective than him. “Mister Clarke, before we arrive, I’d like to ask a great favor of you.”
Clarke knew what he meant: that he should not mention Mallén’s moment of weakness. He reassured him politely in a roundabout way. A quarter of an hour later, they were sitting opposite Manful himself; sheltered by oilskins and with the warmth of a fire, discussing strategies as if they had never done anything else. Manful was keen to fight; he had brought a large supply of cows and gallons of liquor, which his troops were busy consuming as though the world might come to an end at any minute. He had also done something else, which he begged Mallén to forgive him for: he had sent a delegation to quickly inform Colqán of what was happening, so all they had to do was to wait for him.
“Yes,” said Clarke, “as we were arriving we saw a small group of riders heading out. I suppose that was them.”
“No,” Mallén replied, staring after them. “Colqán lives in another direction, and my men left last night. The ones you saw, and who can still be seen — can you make them out? — are nothing to do with us.”
They all looked: the group, made up of about twenty riders, was a dark stain on the rainswept horizon. The chieftain’s next words took them by surprise:
“That’s Rondeau’s Widow.”
Their eyes immediately became telescopes, though without the lenses; that is, they could not see any further or more clearly, but they did focus more closely: Gauna for his own reasons, and Clarke without knowing exactly why — from contagion, he supposed. Or for no reason at all. What he saw was an incomparable vision. That woman, whose existence he had been unaware of only a month before, had in such a short time become an integral part of his imagination. What if she really were Gauna’s half-sister? He glanced sideways at the gaucho: he sat there in suspense, holding his breath, his eyes starting from his head. There was no hatred in his look, not even greed, but simply a thirst for adventure and knowledge which gave him a noble look despite his ugliness. Clarke had never perceived so clearly the need for the novelesque in life: it was the only truly useful thing, precisely because it lent weight to the uselessness of everything. Clarke turned to Manfuclass="underline"
“Why did you let her go just like that? Isn’t she a Voroga?”
Mallén wanted to say something, but the chieftain got in before him:
“We are Vorogas as well.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Our loyalties don’t follow strictly ethnic lines. There are a lot of crossovers. Anyway, she isn’t strictly speaking a Voroga, and she’s a sworn enemy of Coliqueo’s.”