The Mountain Range

At the boy's birth, the doctor noticed that he had a strange birthmark, like the slash of a knife, across the upper ribs over the heart. After the cord had been snipped and the baby washed and placed in the arms of his dozing mother, the doctor pointed it out to the father, whose brow furrowed. Later, in private, the father mentioned it to the mother, who examined the mark, frowning deeply, then kissed it and drew the baby's mouth to her full breast. The father sat watching them for a few minutes in his cane-bottomed chair, then went outside to smoke his pipe. The mother could smell the pipe smoke in the dim room, its shutters closed against hot August sunlight. It was dry and hot that year and all the shrubs withered in the scorching sun. The mother dozed off. When she woke, her son was asleep, also, resting calmly on her breasts. She heard the man, her husband, the father of her son, pumping water out in the yard.

It was not until the boy was one and a half that he began behaving oddly and saying some strange things. He could be found thrusting his fist at the wheeling shadows over his crib. As soon as he could walk, he picked up sticks and slashed and thrust at the air with them, his face calm but showing a strange intensity. One day a man rode by on a silver-colored horse singing a milonga, a song about whores, knives, violence and sudden death. The boy walked outside to hear the song and remained standing there, rapt, long after the horseman had passed by. His father walked up unannounced, silent on his bare feet, and swept a hand over the boy's hair. The boy crouched down and let out a strange, quavering scream . . .

Another day, the mother found the boy walking around the house with the father's knife stuck in his belt. She took it away. He sobbed and wailed almost soundlessly at first, then sat facing a wall with his eyes shut until supper.

His father, still cool from washing at the pump, the sleeves rolled up over his bare arms and his dark hair wet, came into the room laughing at some joke he'd heard, but stopped still when he saw the boy in the chair facing the wall.

The man's son turned his head and murmured: "He killed me."

"Who?"

"Juan Zamorra"

"What?"

"Outside the wine shop in Jarilla. That's where I fell. He cut me here."

And the boy swept two fingers like a knife over his ribs.

"You're dreaming, son. Wake up."

The father tapped his son's head a few times with his fingers, and the boy came out of his trance and began wailing again. The mother stood in the doorway, her hands covering her face but her wide dark eyes staring through the spread fingers. She didn't make a sound.

After putting his son to bed that evening, the father pulled back the sheet and studied the birthmark. The little boy was already asleep, his eyelids trembling. The father picked up the lantern and walked out of the room. He sat at the kitchen table, sighed.

"In the morning, first thing, I'll take the horse and ride over to Jarilla."

"Will you take him along?" asked his wife.

"No," he said, after thinking a little. He breathed out a long stream of air through his nostrils and shook his head and repeated himself: "No."

She placed both her hands on his arms, folded on the table. They sat like that for a while. Then he leaned forward and blew out the lantern. The smoke rose, its bitter and pungent odor filling the kitchen.

In the morning he rode to Jarilla as promised. He arrived shortly past noon, covered in dust. He beat the dust out of his hat standing outside the wine-shop. Then he went in and sat at one of the long tables and asked for a jar of wine. There were three other men in the wine shop, speaking in subdued voices. He raised his voice slightly to ask, as if asking no one, if anyone knew of a Juan Zamorra.

A man with Indian features said, "You can find him in the cemetary."

Silence. The jar was placed on the table before him, along with a wooden cup. The man poured some into the cup and drank. He said,

"Have some wine with me."

The three men came over with their cups and sat. He poured wine with quiet ceremony for all of them. They all drank. He asked,

"I wonder -- when did Juan Zamorra die? And how?"

The same Indian-looking man, who was wearing a shabby gray coat, said, "About three years gone now he killed another man, a good guy named Jorge in a knife fight right outside this place. They were both drunk and they were fighting over a girl they'd been talking about. As I say, Jorge was a good guy but he was never so much with a knife. He died quickly. They took the corpse off in a wagon. Juan came back in here and started drinking. He got really drunk. Then about sunset Jorge's younger brother Cesario rides up on his horse, gets off it real slow like, and walks in here holding his rifle. I was here that day and so were they [motioning to his silent friends]. Ah, gracias, my friend. [More wine has just been poured into his cup.] So Cesario just stands there looking at Juan and then levels his rifle and shoots him in the head as he's drinking. Juan was just too soused to even see him come in, too soused to be aware of anything. He falls to the floor dead and Cesario walks out and that's that. See that hole in the wall? That's where the bullet went in. Somebody dug it out a few weeks later."

"So what about this girl they were fighting over?"

The Indian-featured man gave a short, hard laugh like a hiccup.

"Cesario went ahead and married her. Maybe out of respect for his brother's taste. Her name's Teresa. She's a true beauty and she's the mayor's daughter. Jorge had a chance with her but Juan never did. Anyhow, they've just had a kid -- he'll be a year old soon. Everybody says he looks just like Jorge did at that age. They've even named him Jorge."

"I've got a son, he's three. His name's Patrick. I live over in the next town, there at the base of the mountain range."

"What are you doing out here?"

"Just riding around, seeing the sights, you know. Hearing the stories. Juan Zamorra was a distant relative, so I thought I'd look him up. It's sad that he's gone. I'll be on my way now. But for your kindness in giving me all this information, please permit me to buy you and your friends one more jar of wine."

"Fine, but only if you join us in the first drink."

The second jar of wine came. The man in the dusty travelling clothes raised his full wooden cup.

"What shall we drink to?"

"To Jorge Bellaqone. A real good guy. Hope he's enjoying his new peaceful life in heaven."

They all drank deeply. Then the stranger stood up, put his hat back on and walked out of the wine shop. The three men and the tavern-keeper watched him slowly cross the dusty yard and swing up onto his dusty horse. He turned the horse with the reins, kicked its ribs and rode off at a jog toward the sunset-reflecting mountain range.