After their brief, inconclusive dialogue about the meaning of names and the significance of dreams, they began discussing what name they should give to the dream that this dog is. Opinions are divided, they are, as we ought to know, simply a matter of preference, we might even say that an opinion is nothing but the reasoned expression of preference. Pedro Orce suggests and upholds such rustic and traditional names as Pilot or Faithful, both very suitable if we consider the animal's character, an infallible guide and utterly loyal. Joana Carda wavers between Major and Rookie, names with military overtones that don't quite fit the temperament of the woman making the suggestion, but the feminine soul possesses unfathomable depths, Goethe's Marguerite will struggle all her life at the spinning wheel to repress the urge to behave like Lady Macbeth, and to her dying hour she will not be certain of having won. As for Maria Guavaira, although unable to explain why, and not for the first time, she proposed, somewhat embarrassed by her own suggestion, that they call the dog Guardian Angel, and she blushed as she spoke, aware of how ridiculous it would sound, especially in public, to summon one's guardian angel, and to have appear, instead of some heavenly being, garbed in white robes and descending with a flutter of wings, a ferocious mastiff, covered with mud and the blood of some poor rabbit, and respecting only its masters, if they deserve that name. José Anaiço was quick to silence the laughter provoked by Maria Guavaira's suggestion, and proposed that the dog be named Constant, For if I've understood the meaning of that word, it embraces all the qualities evoked by those other names, Faithful, Pilot, Major, Rookie, and even Guardian Angel, for if any of them should be inconstant, all trust is lost, the pilot loses his way, the major abandons his post, the rookie surrenders his arms, and the guardian angel allows himself to be seduced by the young girl he was supposed to be shielding from temptation. They all applauded, although Joaquim Sassa felt that it would still be preferable simply to call the animal Dog, for as the only dog around, there was little danger of his mistaking any summons or response. So they've decided to call the dog Constant, but they needn't have taken so much trouble christening it, the animal answers to whatever name they care to use once it knows it's being called, but there is another name that lingers in its memory, Ardent, but no one here remembers that one. The man who once said that a name is nothing, not even a dream, was right, even if Maria Guavaira believes otherwise.
Unknown to them, they are following the old route of Santiago, they pass through places that bear names of hope or past misfortune, depending on what travelers experienced there in bygone days, Sarriá, Samos, or the privileged Villafranca del Bierzo, where any sick or weary pilgrim who might knock on the door of the apostle's church received dispensation from completing the journey to Santiago de Compostela, and gained the same indulgences won by those going all the way. So even in those days faith made concessions, although nothing like today when the concessions are more rewarding than faith itself, the Catholic faith or any other. At least these travelers know that if they wish to see the Pyrenees, they will have to go all the way there and lay their hand on the crest, a foot is not enough, since it is less sensitive, and the eyes are more easily deceived than one imagines. Little by little, the rain has started to abate, there is the odd drizzle now and then, until it finally stops altogether. The sky has not cleared, night is rapidly falling. They camp under some trees to shelter from any further showers, although Pedro Orce could quote the Spanish proverb that goes something like this, Shelter under a tree and you'll get soaked twice. The fire wasn't easy to light, but Maria Guavaira's know-how finally conquered the damp twigs, which crackled and flared up at the ends as if the sap were spilling out. They ate as best they could, enough to prevent their stomachs from rumbling with hunger during the night, for as another proverb tells us, Go to bed without a bite, you'll be restless all the night. They had their meal inside the wagon, by the light of the smoking oil lamp, the atmosphere heavy, their clothes damp, the mattresses rolled up and stacked away, their remaining possessions in a heap, any self-respecting housewife would have had a fit at such untidiness. But since there's no evil that lasts forever or rain that never stops, let's wait for a ray of sunshine to appear and then they'll tackle the washing, the mattresses opened out so that they can dry down to the last fine wisp of straw and the clothes spread over the bushes and boulders, when we gather them in they'll give off that fresh, warm smell the sun always leaves behind, and all this will be done while the women, creating a cosy domestic scene, adjust and sew the long strips of plastic that will solve all their problems with leaking rain, blessed be whoever invented progress.
They remained there, conversing with the ease and indolence of people whiling away the hours, until it was time to go to bed, and then Pedro Orce interrupts what he was saying and starts telling them, I once read somewhere that the galaxy to which our solar system belongs is heading toward some constellation, I can't remember the name, and that constellation is heading in its turn to a certain point in space, I wish 1 knew more, the details escape me, but what I wanted to say is this, look, we're on a peninsula, the peninsula is sailing on the sea, the sea goes around with the earth to which it belongs, and the earth spins around on its own axis but also goes around the sun, and the sun also spins around, and the whole thing is heading in the direction of the aforesaid constellation, so I wonder whether maybe we're not the last link in this chain of movements within movements. And what I'd like to know is what moves inside us and where does it go, no, I'm not talking about worms, microbes, bacteria, those living creatures that inhabit us, I'm referring to something else, to something that moves and perhaps moves us at the same time, just as constellation, galaxy, solar system, sun, earth, sea, peninsula, and Deux Chevaux move and move us with them, what is the name, finally, of the thing that moves all the rest, from one end of the chain to the other, or perhaps there is no chain and the universe is a ring, at once so thin that apparently only we and what is inside us fit into it and so thick that it can accommodate the maximum dimension of the universe, which is the ring itself, what is the name of what follows after us. The nonvisible begins with man, came the surprising answer of José Anaiço, who spoke without thinking.
Passing from leaf to leaf, large drops of water come trickling down onto the canvas. Outside, Grizzly and Chess can be heard stirring under their plastic sheets, which do not quite cover them, this is where total silence can be useful, allowing us to hear the slightest noise. Everyone here believes it to be his or her duty to contribute to this solemn council whatever knowledge they possess, but they are all terrified that if they open their mouths, what comes out, even if it is not the little toads of the fable, will be no more than random banalities about existence, ontological pronouncements, however doubtful the relevance of that word in the context of wagon, drops of rain and horses, without forgetting the dog, now fast asleep. Maria Guavaira, having the least education, was the first to speak, Perhaps we should call the nonvisible God, but it is curious how a certain note of interrogation crept into the phrase, Or willpower, suggested Joaquim Sassa, Or intelligence, added Joana Carda, Or history, and this closing remark was made by José Anaiço. Pedro Orce had no suggestion to make, he simply commented, Anyone who thinks this is easy is profoundly mistaken, there are endless answers just waiting for questions.