Cruz by Nicolás Ferraro

Author:Nicolás Ferraro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Soho Press

17.

The reflection of the lamp shimmers on the Paraná like a flame.

I throw a stone and shatter it. With all the others I’ve thrown in while I’ve been waiting, it won’t be long before they break the surface like the top of a mountain.

Next to an improvised dock made of tree trunks, the boughs of the willows scratch the river. Farther down, the branches seem to push three boats that bob in the wind.

Behind me, higher up the bank, three wooden houses painted moss green are visible between the trees. In the door of the closest one, Centurión stands smoking a cigarette. A Ranger with tinted windows is parked where the white Isuzu was a few hours ago. It hasn’t come back yet. A guy in a beret heads for the dock with two pieces of wood as big around as lampposts under his arms.

I throw another stone.

A guy walks in front of me and leaves a sack on the boat. A few bricks of coke fall out. The man passes by me. His eyebrows look like two fuzzy cats. He goes up the bank and disappears behind the Ranger. Centurión flicks the cigarette butt away and goes inside the cabin. The guy in the beret balances a plank on top of a piece of wood and gets to work with his machete.

The reflection of the trees in the river breaks up completely. The guy with the eyebrows goes by again and loads another twenty kilos in the boat, which is moving less and less with all the weight.

The last time I rowed a boat was when we went fishing as kids. Samuel would give us rods and a couple of worms, then make himself comfortable on the shore with his bota bag and drink wine until he passed out. That was at least fifteen years ago. Rowing is like riding a bike, I tell myself and throw another rock.

Eyebrows walks by again. This time he’s got a sack over each shoulder. The drops running down his face look more like sap than sweat.

The wind is blowing. The willows sink in the water, and the waves break against a rusted car on the shore. The smell of wet earth predicts rain. I can’t see the shore on the Argentine side. Clouds of fog rest on the surface of the river as if the Paraná were a brownish sky.

The little lamps that hang from the other two cabins come on, and now there are three flames that mirror each other. Three candles, a shrine, and just like at the police station, the urge to pray, to believe in something, explodes in my chest.

The guy in the beret keeps hacking away with his machete, and the wood starts to take the shape of an oar. This time Eyebrows walks past with another guy whose shadow is so huge, I thought he was two people. He puts down a huge bag like the ones used for yerba mate. I’ve lost count of how many kilos he’s loaded.

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