morning and night filled the current house with flies and the stench of manure. Elena and J. often went up to the site where they planned to build the new house and talked about the layout of the rooms, the bathrooms and the windows.
As winter drew to a close, J. became obsessed with planting. He planted mangoes on what would be the terrace of the new house, pineapples on the slopes of the hill—leaving a single strip of bare earth into which he planned to cut a flight of stone steps leading to the summit—and orange trees around the paddocks.
And as winter drew to a close, he began to write in a huge journal that, for want of a better name, he called “the book”. The two-thousand-page volume bound in black leather had been made by a friend, a craftsman at the Coltejer factory with a love for bookbinding. His friend had initially intended to make and then write a great book. “A big fuck-off book,” he explained, “using every single word in the dictionary.” To J.—who had always been fascinated by futile intellectual pursuits, which were a part of his inchoate and confused revolt against culture—the book was a fascinating project. Whenever they met up, he would excitedly ask his friend how the book was progressing. “I’m up to page fifteen,” his friend might say with the weary shrug of a marathon runner. “When it’s finished, I’ll show it to you.”
But his friend never did finish the book. Having reached page thirty, and having shown his work to no one—not even J., whom he respected—he ripped out the pages he had written and burned them. Perhaps his friends’ mocking contempt for his intention to remain within the constraints of the dictionary had been too much for him.
“I’m a craftsman,
hermano
, and a fucking good one,” he said to J., “so I’m giving you the book, maybe you can do something with it.”
Thinking it might prove useful at the
finca
, but mostly because he loved the object and the story behind it, J. had packed it—1,970 blank pages—along with the other belongings he brought with him to the sea.
June 4, 1976: Today Don Eduardo brought four hundred pineapple shoots. He charged two pesos each. He brought them on an old pack mule he calls God’s Creature.
Heavy grey clouds are building up to the south. If we plant them out this morning, the rains might wash away the newly planted shoots.
Don Eduardo says he knows a herbal poultice that can prevent and treat the fungal infection. Elena doesn’t believe a word the old man says—actually, he’s not that old, from what I hear—but I’m prepared to smear my feet with anything if it stops the infection coming back.
One of the cows calved last night, but the heifer was stillborn.
They had no luck with their livestock. In the first month after their arrival, lightning struck an ox and her calf. Shortly afterwards, two cattle disappeared, probably stolen. There was an investigation and a case was filed—the policeman had no idea how to use a typewriter, so J. had to type the statement himself—but the case was never resolved. Vague suspicions and scurrilous rumours all pointed to Doña Rosa’s youngest son, Roberto, the black sheep of the family, being the guilty party, and to Juan, the local shopkeeper, having bought the stolen cattle. Juan had a reputation for buying stolen goods and Roberto for being a wastrel and a drunk. But no one other than Elena had been prepared to swear the men were guilty, and Elena had no proof.
The fact remained that they now had twenty-nine head of cattle—precisely the same number as when they arrived.The calves that were born had made up for those lost, but they had to be raised and fattened and so, partly to increase the herd, and partly because he liked the look of the beast, J. bought a magnificent stud bull. He bought it despite the qualms of Elena and even Gilberto, who rightly felt that they did not need the animal since a neighbour was prepared to rent them a bull at
As winter drew to a close, J. became obsessed with planting. He planted mangoes on what would be the terrace of the new house, pineapples on the slopes of the hill—leaving a single strip of bare earth into which he planned to cut a flight of stone steps leading to the summit—and orange trees around the paddocks.
And as winter drew to a close, he began to write in a huge journal that, for want of a better name, he called “the book”. The two-thousand-page volume bound in black leather had been made by a friend, a craftsman at the Coltejer factory with a love for bookbinding. His friend had initially intended to make and then write a great book. “A big fuck-off book,” he explained, “using every single word in the dictionary.” To J.—who had always been fascinated by futile intellectual pursuits, which were a part of his inchoate and confused revolt against culture—the book was a fascinating project. Whenever they met up, he would excitedly ask his friend how the book was progressing. “I’m up to page fifteen,” his friend might say with the weary shrug of a marathon runner. “When it’s finished, I’ll show it to you.”
But his friend never did finish the book. Having reached page thirty, and having shown his work to no one—not even J., whom he respected—he ripped out the pages he had written and burned them. Perhaps his friends’ mocking contempt for his intention to remain within the constraints of the dictionary had been too much for him.
“I’m a craftsman,
hermano
, and a fucking good one,” he said to J., “so I’m giving you the book, maybe you can do something with it.”
Thinking it might prove useful at the
finca
, but mostly because he loved the object and the story behind it, J. had packed it—1,970 blank pages—along with the other belongings he brought with him to the sea.
June 4, 1976: Today Don Eduardo brought four hundred pineapple shoots. He charged two pesos each. He brought them on an old pack mule he calls God’s Creature.
Heavy grey clouds are building up to the south. If we plant them out this morning, the rains might wash away the newly planted shoots.
Don Eduardo says he knows a herbal poultice that can prevent and treat the fungal infection. Elena doesn’t believe a word the old man says—actually, he’s not that old, from what I hear—but I’m prepared to smear my feet with anything if it stops the infection coming back.
One of the cows calved last night, but the heifer was stillborn.
They had no luck with their livestock. In the first month after their arrival, lightning struck an ox and her calf. Shortly afterwards, two cattle disappeared, probably stolen. There was an investigation and a case was filed—the policeman had no idea how to use a typewriter, so J. had to type the statement himself—but the case was never resolved. Vague suspicions and scurrilous rumours all pointed to Doña Rosa’s youngest son, Roberto, the black sheep of the family, being the guilty party, and to Juan, the local shopkeeper, having bought the stolen cattle. Juan had a reputation for buying stolen goods and Roberto for being a wastrel and a drunk. But no one other than Elena had been prepared to swear the men were guilty, and Elena had no proof.
The fact remained that they now had twenty-nine head of cattle—precisely the same number as when they arrived.The calves that were born had made up for those lost, but they had to be raised and fattened and so, partly to increase the herd, and partly because he liked the look of the beast, J. bought a magnificent stud bull. He bought it despite the qualms of Elena and even Gilberto, who rightly felt that they did not need the animal since a neighbour was prepared to rent them a bull at
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