By ISMAEL RAMOS
Translated by JACOB ROGERS
Piece appears below in English and the original Galician.
Translator’s Note
Translating “The Hare,” by Ismael Ramos, was a perfect encapsulation of the idea that the hardest texts to translate are not necessarily the most maximalist or technical, but the sparest and most pared down. In his narration, Ramos keeps things moving at a brisk pace with gentle, light-footed prose dotted with sparks of lyricism. His dialogue is similarly effective, with sharp, often curt interchanges between the siblings Raúl and Valeria that maintain a tension that thrums under the surface of their car ride. And therein lies the challenge: if it were only a matter of reproducing sentences as lovely as these, that would be one thing; the hard part is that they need to be both lovely and charged with the electrical undercurrent of the unspoken, they need to lean on a word or intention in some places and lay off in others, just as brother and sister push and pull at each other. Or, as Raúl might put it, they metaphorical ping pong, deflecting and attacking and dissimulating.
It’s a story animated by the frayed relationship between a kid brother and his older sister. In that sense, it was important to me that their conversation be inflected with the complexity and lightness that feels so unique to siblings, who know you better than almost anyone else, your weak spots and vulnerabilities just as much as how to make you laugh and defuse you. As the youngest of four myself, I was fascinated by the way that Ramos (an eldest sibling) traced the relationship between Raúl and Valeria, and so perfectly embodied that surface-subsurface tension in the gaps between what they do and don’t say to each other. It’s a quietly powerful, stunning story about how little we know of even those we know best, and the difficult, unglamorous work that goes into keeping strained family relationships alive, for better or for worse.
—Jacob Rogers
The Hare
No, not in the trunk, it’s a mess. You can throw your backpack in the backseat.
Raúl turns around and opens the back door on the passenger’s side, where he finds three magazines, a pair of leather sandals, and an expansive bouquet of hydrangeas. They’re blue, wrapped in newspaper.
Are the flowers for Sonia?
No, stupid. They’re for Mom. I would never steal flowers for Sonia. Valeria shoots a mischievous smile at Raúl, and he has no choice but to smile back. It’s always like this: he’s the first to attack, but she knows how to make him bow his neck; she breaks him.
You stole them?
If you think about it, picking flowers is always stealing, technically.
Oh, come on. If you’re the one who planted and watered them, that’s not stealing. Or if they’re wild.
That’s all relative, we’re stealing them from the earth, their stem, their roots…Raúl and Valeria talk over the roof of the car, each on their respective end of the ping pong table. It’s a familiar game for them.
God, you’re ridiculous.
A white truck starts to honk right behind them. It’s noon on a July day in Vigo, and Valeria is double parked.
Get in your damn car and get out of the way!
Before he can climb in, Raúl has to lift a transparent pot, a kind of tureen, from the seat.
What’s this?
Aunt Ana gave it to me. Put it in the back, Valeria says, turning the key in the ignition. She waves her hand out the window to placate the man in the truck and starts to drive. Or maybe that’s not a good idea. Do you mind carrying it in your lap? If it spills…
Raúl doesn’t bother to answer. He awkwardly buckles his seatbelt and waits for them to turn off Avenida de Madrid. He notices that Valeria’s skin is especially dark, with the feral tan of children in the summer. She’s wearing light blue jeans and a red tank top that matches the car. She’s gained a lot of weight since the last time he saw her. They live in the same city, but they hardly ever meet up.
His sister had moved to Vigo a decade ago to get her degree in translation. At first, she’d lived with their aunt Ana, and then in shared apartments. In Valeria’s third year of university, their mother had died.
Maybe you want to go back and live with your aunt, their father had suggested at the time.
I’d rather drop dead.
Aunt Ana is their mother’s eldest sister. She’s always lived alone in a spacious apartment on Rúa Urzaiz, in the heart of the city, she likes to take trips all over Spain in the summer, and she works for the National Police Department issuing government IDs and passports.
The things we see! You know, just the other day, a girl came in for a renewal, she must have been about twenty, but the poor angel’s entire face was burned. It was horrible! Her mouth was a hole. Her face looked like a mask, and she was wearing this wool cap…I don’t think she had any hair. If you’d just seen how pretty she was in her old ID! Lovely lips, and eyelashes…She didn’t want to keep it, though. You can’t imagine how much it hurt me to have to throw it away.
The burn victim—who varies in age and the severity of her burns—is trotted out by their aunt every time someone asks her about her work. There’s no reason to think it’s a lie, and it could even be a different person each time; the world sees more tragedies in a day than can fit in the newspapers. But there’s one detail that remains constant in every version of the story: how beautiful the women were before their accidents, how gorgeous they looked in their old ID photos. Valeria and Raúl have always thought their aunt must either be a lesbian or asexual.
They move ahead in fits and starts. The traffic at this hour is like a child learning the violin.
Raúl tries to discern, through the plastic wrap at the top, what’s in the tureen he’s holding. Floating among the oil and herbs are a dozen tiny pieces of meat attached to their respective bones. There’s a whole sprig of thyme, a rib cage, a paw, and some other bits he’s not immediately able to identify. It’s like a liquid jigsaw puzzle.
Is this rabbit?
No, hare. Like the kind Mom’s family hunts.
When she says this, she’s talking about their great-aunts and great-uncles, who live in Mazaricos, the miniscule town where they own a dairy co-op that’s become something like the pride of the family. Their grandmother, or their mother and aunt’s mother, is the only one of her siblings who didn’t join the family business. She moved to A Coruña early on and always worked at a drugstore downtown. Her reward, she said, was having two civil servant daughters. Now, just one.
Do you see Aunt Ana a lot?
No, only occasionally.
Is the hare for Sonia?
It’s for Dad, Valeria says joylessly, looking straight ahead. She’s grown tired of their game.
They stop in front of a crosswalk. In the car beside them, a little girl sticks out her tongue at Raúl. He stares at her firmly for a moment. He wants to scare her, but he doesn’t have it in him.
They’re driving to A Coruña for the birthday celebration of Sonia, their father’s new girlfriend.
Raúl had chosen Vigo for two reasons. Firstly, Valeria was already there. Secondly, Vigo was an intermediate place: far enough that he’d have an excuse not to go home when he didn’t feel like it, but close enough that his father wouldn’t object to him moving away.
Truthfully, Valeria’s move hadn’t set a good precedent. She’d never finished her degree and was always cobbling together jobs to scrape by. As far as Raúl knew, she still lived with roommates. Sometimes, when they spoke on the phone, Raúl’s father would ask if he ever saw her, if they met for coffee or lunch, and at first he’d told the truth: during his first year of university, Raúl had seen Valeria in Vigo three times: twice while they were out at night and once for his birthday, with a croissant and a candle at Castrelos Park. When he noticed his father’s concern turning into nagging, he began to lie, to invent false encounters and banal morsels of conversation that were always more or less the same and always contented his father. His relationship with his sister over the past few years had consisted mostly of that pillow fluff.
Raúl had been lucky enough not to have to live with Aunt Ana. Their mother had been dead for four years by then, and in this one instance, Valeria’s experience might have worked in his favor. According to their father, there was a sort of curse hanging over their mother’s side of the family, like death came to all of them in a strange way. Valeria was included in that every one of them, and consciously or not, their father blamed Aunt Ana for the contamination. He saw them as an inseparable pair.
How are the ladies in Vigo?
Raúl had never been able to put his finger on when the shift had taken place, why their father had suddenly decided that city life and sharing an apartment on Rúa Urzaiz must necessarily have altered his daughter’s DNA. He knew as well as Raúl that Valeria found Aunt Ana intolerable. In fact, the three of them sharing a laugh at Ana’s Facebook photos of her trips to La Mancha was one of the few activities they could engage in comfortably for several minutes in a row without having to fill in awkward silences.
They reach Rande Bridge and the traffic seems to be flowing better. Far off in the bay, where the Cíes Islands should be, there’s only fog. Fog and light. Like a giant operating room spotlight. Raúl’s eyes water and he looks away. He tries to accommodate the glass tureen between his legs, but it’s too wide. He decides to wrap his arms around it and clutch it against his belly until he can find a more comfortable position.
We should call Dad and tell them to start without us, shouldn’t we? He has to shout. The car windows are down and the force of the wind blowing in is all-consuming.
No way! We’re taking the highway, we’ll be there by two-thirty, easy. She looks at her watch and says: fine, maybe three; we’ll be there by three at the latest.
Okay, whatever you say.
The car is a used red Renault 19 and Valeria is at least its second owner. Give or take a year, it must be about twenty-one years old, the same as Raúl. And aside from a cigarette burn on one of the backseats, you could basically call it pristine. But that’s a lie. The last time he got in Valeria’s car, he’d been assailed by a horrible, rotten stench. That had been last Christmas.
Do you have a dead rat in your trunk or something?
Don’t be such a baby! Valeria had punched him hard on the arm. They’d had their coats on, so it didn’t hurt. The heating and air conditioning systems had, of course, stopped working a long time ago by then.
Ok, but seriously, what is that smell?
Water gets in, that’s all.
Into the car?
Yeah, if it rains a lot, the water gets in and pools in the back. The smell is from the damp, I guess, the standing water. Honestly, I’m not sure what to do about it, she’d said helplessly.
You should take it to the shop.
Yeah, duh.
Valeria hadn’t seemed very convinced, so he continued. He wanted to help her.
Or you could always sell it. Sell it and buy another one. I’m sure Dad can help you out.
Yeah, Raúl, I’m sure he can.
She’d spent the rest of the ride silent.
In general, he takes the train home, but whenever she finds out they’re going to be at the apartment in A Coruña at the same time, Valeria offers to take him with her. At first, he’d assumed she only offered because their father told her to, but later, he found out from Sonia that Dad and Valeria weren’t speaking to each other.
You need to convince your sister to change. Your father is extremely worried. She doesn’t pick up when we call, and she hardly ever visits. We don’t know anything about her life. Where does she work? She won’t even tell us that much. Imagine how embarrassing that is for your father, not knowing what to say when someone asks what his daughter does. I’m sure she’d listen to you. This is all such a tragedy. You know I wouldn’t use that word if it wasn’t.
Sonia is always this hyperbolic, and this matter-of-fact. She’s a widow, like Raúl’s father, but she talks like she’s Aunt Ana, like she’s been a widow forever. It’s a quality they carry in the timbre of their voices, in the way they order information. That day, helping Sonia fold a set of blankets, Raúl had learned that his sister had cut herself off from everything. But that also meant that she drove him because she wanted to, and not as a result of their father’s nagging. For the first time in a long time, he’d felt a warmth inside, a knot.
Maybe I’m the problem, maybe I tell you too much, had been the only thing he could think to say to get her to stop talking, to distract her. All he’d wanted then was to keep calm and decide whether he wanted to cross the unstable bridge which he’d just discovered, and which would take him to where his sister was. Maybe it was a better place.
Most of the time, they’re cruel to Sonia. Their father met her two years ago and she’s already moved in.
Valeria, do you hate Sonia? He’s not sure why he asked the question so bluntly, or why now. The car stereo plays the same cassette tape as all their previous trips: an album of Ana Gabriel’s rancheras.
No, I don’t hate her. I don’t like her, but I don’t hate her.
Raúl nods and looks out the window. He loves being on the highway. When he was little, he always fell asleep in the car, trying to keep his eyes open as he looked for something to appear on the roadside: a specter, a fruit stand, whatever. He’d never seen anything. Maybe, at most, a frightened fox crossing in front of the headlights at night.
What about you? Do you hate her?
No, I guess not. Hate’s a strong word.
I’m glad to hear you say that, it’s not good to hate. And we’re too young for it.
Valeria feels around in the side of the door for a pair of dark sunglasses and puts them on.
But sometimes, says Raúl, I do feel bad for her. She tries so hard, she’s always saying how much she loves us—
That’s exactly it, I don’t like all this insistence that she loves us, Valeria says as she changes gears.
Her sunglasses are so dark that they shine.
It looks like I left my wallet at home, so you’ll have to pay for the gas and the tolls, little bro. I’m doing all the work!
What about your license?
I keep it in the glove compartment, Valeria says with a satisfied laugh, slapping the dashboard. Raúl doesn’t counterattack.
Knowing nothing about his sister has never seemed anything but normal to him. He was eleven when she left for university, fourteen when their mother died, nineteen when their father met Sonia. Time has always been a wedge between he and Valeria—the seven-year age difference meant that they didn’t play together or go to primary or secondary school at the same time—but the greatest wedge of all have been the silences: first Mom, then Valeria quitting school, then their father bringing Sonia to lunch for the first time. These were things they never talked about.
The service pavilion is especially busy at this hour of the day. There’s a small restaurant beside the gas station. It’s already past two in the afternoon as they pull up beside a pump.
I’m going to stretch my legs, if that’s okay with you. And get this creature off my lap for a bit, he says to Valeria, gesturing at the butchered hare. Why don’t you go in and buy some cold water? I’ll wait for the attendant.
They get out of the car and he tosses his wallet to Valeria. She catches it in both hands and they exchange a smile.
Raúl leans against the hood of the car. The air is hot and his head feels heavy. The interior of the Renault 19 is draped with the heavy, wild, and herbal aroma of the hydrangeas, a smell that now mingles with the scent of gasoline. He’s always found it strange that some people are drawn to that smell. Once, he also heard that people on chemotherapy constantly have an iron taste in their mouths. Gas stations give him the same feeling.
If you could give us thirty euros-worth, please.
He feels immediately ridiculous for being so formal with the employee. He could have just said “thirty euros.” The attendant is probably about the same age as Raúl. Maybe a smidge younger. He’s wearing an orange visor and polo. All company-issued. His biceps draw the fabric of his sleeves taut, though he’s actually skinny. Raúl goes around the back of the car and leans against the trunk, closer to the attendant and the pump. The detour makes his approach seem more casual.
Someone in another car calls out to the attendant. Raúl turns around and rests his hands on the red chassis. He’s a bit dizzy.
Hey! What do you think you’re doing?
Valeria shouts at him from the door to the restaurant. Her arms are full—two large bottles of water, a sandwich, a bag of potato chips—and she’s striding furiously towards him. Raúl doesn’t understand a thing.
Didn’t I tell you not to open the trunk? Her every step is heavy with violence, ready to pounce. The gas station attendant turns to look at them while he keys instructions into a pump.
I didn’t open it, Raúl says, lowering his voice and raising his hands in the air.
He notices the sweat beading on Valeria’s face, like a popsicle freshly slipped from its wrapper.
Here, take your water.
She thrusts the bottle at his chest and gets in the car.
Raúl tries to find the attendant’s eyes. He’s facing away, walking towards the store. Even the drama, the scene, hadn’t been enough to keep him there. Not him, not anyone. Everyone’s leaving.
They’re parked in the service pavilion parking lot with the windows open and the music low. Neither of them has said a word for the past five minutes, or a ranchera and a half. The sun is shining directly on them and Raúl knows he’s getting burnt. Valeria, on the other hand, seems unbothered, protected by her cavewoman tan. She gives a long sigh.
I really don’t feel like going home.
Raúl doesn’t answer.
I don’t feel like seeing Dad, I don’t feel like seeing Sonia. I don’t feel like eating lunch with them, or sleeping there.
As if we’ll be there in time for lunch, Raúl jokes, and Valeria smiles at him in return.
Would it be okay if I dropped you off and went back to Vigo? You can say you had to take the bus, I bailed on you…Make up whatever you want, it’s fine with me.
You don’t have to spend the night, Raúl says, walking the conversation back, trying to take the reins.
Valeria reclines her seat until she disappears, maybe to avoid the sun hitting her in the face. Raúl tries to imitate her, but it’s impossible for him to do while keeping one arm around Aunt Ana’s marinaded hare, so he stays where he is.
We should tell them we won’t make it in time for lunch, he says.
Yeah.
He can hear the fatigue in Valeria’s voice. The aftermath of her fury: a small creek, a pleasant breeze. They talk quieter and quieter, matching the volume of the music.
Fucking hydrangeas. I’ve spent the whole drive thinking about those stupid fucking hydrangeas.
Why? They’re nice.
Raúl wishes he’d picked a better adjective, something more specific, something that would have comforted her.
They can’t see each other while they talk and that puts everything on pause. That and the heat. The air in the car reminds him of that time he went to confession. It was July then, too, and his First Communion was days away. He was scared, so he lied.
They’re not nice, they’re monstrous. Like that gigantic kind you put at a niche. They’d look awful. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be a good idea.
I like them. Really, I do.
I do, too, but they’re not right.
You could always give them to Sonia!
Valeria laughs again. It’s the second time; he’s keeping track. He flattens his body against the seat and twists his neck around to look at her. She’s taken off her sunglasses and is lying down, resigned to the powerful light streaming in from the back window. Until this moment, Raúl has only ever had memories of his sister being bigger than him, but from now on he’ll only be able to think of her being so much wearier than him as she lay there. It’s not the kind of fatigue that a night of sleep can wash away. It’s more like something you carry with you day by day, growing and growing while it molds your body to its demands.
So? Raúl says.
So what?
What’s your big gift for Sonia?
His neck is tense from holding this posture, and the arm he has around the glass tureen has begun to sweat. Valeria tears a small stem from the hydrangeas and places it between his lips. Raúl lets it stay there for a second, then spits it out, coming to land on his sister’s shoulder.
You missed!
No way, I wasn’t aiming at your face, he says as he turns forward again. I was going for the killshot, for your heart. They both laugh.
The Renault 19 is always clean, tidy. That data point is a balm for him. The orderliness within this car is the closest thing he has to a certainty about his sister’s life, something he can know without having to ask.
That guy at the gas station was pretty cute, don’t you think? He knows Valeria is looking outside or at the roof of the car when she says it, because her voice sounds muffled.
They’re parked facing the highway. The traffic is relatively thick, and from a distance, the cars look like they’re going more slowly than they really are, like the red blood cells in the videos they’d watched in biology class.
Yeah, he was cute.
Were you into him?
Raúl turns back around and looks into his sister’s eyes. He can tell, by how wide they’ve gone, how she’s brought her head forward, that she’s excited.
I could do worse.
Valeria laughs for the fourth time and that makes him feel good. Getting her to laugh makes him feel useful, it anchors him to that concrete moment in the immaculate interior of the car, in the thick heat.
Don’t be offended, but I think he was more into women.
Just like me.
Really?
Really.
Ok, now that I wasn’t expecting!
Valeria raises her seat back to its regular position. She’s biting her lip.
I’m going to tell them we’re not coming, Raúl resolves, taking the phone out of his pocket.
What should we do instead? Do you want to go back to Vigo?
Well, since we’ve come all this way, we could go to a beach. We have lunch waiting for us, he says, triumphally lifting the glass tureen with the hare swimming inside.
I know an even better spot.
Raúl types quickly. He isn’t feeling well. They tried to put off the decision, but he won’t be able to handle a car ride, so he and Valeria will come to A Coruña tomorrow. Happy birthday to Sonia.
In Santiago they veer northwest and follow the signs for Negreira. As soon as they’ve passed the enormous Feiraco farm, the landscape flattens out. They’re approaching the place where their parents were born. The highway is less curvy here, so Valeria can put her foot on the gas. This stretch has seen many gruesome accidents, almost always in the early hours of the morning: cars loaded with young people—younger than Raúl and Valeria—who crash inexplicably on their way back from a night out, with the incipient sun as their only witness. That’s not going to happen to them. They’re traveling into the past.
For a few minutes all they see are fields, tilled earth. The only trees are there to demarcate property lines.
Should we go see Mom’s family? Raúl asks.
Not now, maybe later.
Raúl finds it fascinating that every single one of their grandmother’s siblings is a hunter. Minor game, for the most part: hares, partridges. Every time they marched off in a hunting party they would be back late for lunch, and would stamp in smelling of the hills and with multiple strings of dead animals. They were like wreaths. All those tiny creatures hanging by enormous hooks threaded through their necks. A silken mess of fur and feathers. Brown, in every possible shade of brown, like the seasons of the earth. The swaying and shifting hues of fur created an illusion of movement, turning them into a single circular, agile being. Raúl had never heard a gunshot, so as far as he knew his aunts and uncles could have collected those animals from the ground, like breadcrums leading them home. Because if not, why would they be late for lunch?
He thinks about all of this as the butchered hare dances in his arms to the rhythm of the rumbling motor.
They park beside a dirt path, kicking up dust as they pull in. Valeria gets out of the car and they look off in the same direction. It’s impossible to get used to the sight of a reservoir, impossible to conceive of its depth. Raúl gets out, sets the glass tureen on the ground, and rests his arms on the roof of the Renault 19. Now, that thing is a vast, gleaming plain. But looked at closely, between the shimmers of light reflected by the sun, the reservoir quivers and is colored an opaque, greenish gray.
You’re crazy, he murmurs.
Valeria looks at him, using a hand to shield her face from the sun, and sets off down the hill, trying to find a path to the water through the tall grass.
You can’t be serious, he shouts, but all that he can see of his sister now are her shoulders, neck, and head following an improvised, zig-zag route.
He runs after her.
When they reach the water, it’s almost motionless. There are no waves; tides don’t exist here. Once again, in the face of such calm, it’s hard not to fear the bottom of the reservoir. What terrifies him is that this place isn’t a part of nature, it was imposed. He’s afraid that there must be a price to pay for creating this, for stealing it from the landscape.
Valeria has already started taking off her jeans, so Raúl hurries to unbuckle his belt. They leave their underwear on. It’s not strangers they’re afraid of being seen by, but each other. They’re not that close.
Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, he says to Valeria.
I promise.
With that, Raúl takes off running. The water is cold, attacking his skin the moment his foot enters. He keeps going, and as soon as the water is up to his hips, he submerges his entire body. Under the surface, the water in the reservoir is imbued with a golden light. Raúl touches the muddy bottom with his toes. He knows he needs to be careful; the ground is treacherous and you have to find a firm place to set your feet. He maintains that posture for a few seconds and holds his breath. With his eyes open underwater, he discovers that the sun is down there, submerged along with him. Three or four hours ago, his sister had picked him up in Vigo, where it was hot out, and he’d seen that light behind the Cíes Islands, so unbearable it brought him to tears. But this is something else. Here, the light is in the tiny grains of dirt swirling around him. It’s much harder to see, and that’s how he knows the sun has settled here at his side.
He brings his head back out of the water and spits as he pulls the hair of out his face.
Get back here right now!
Valeria is still by the edge, only up to her knees. Raúl laughs and starts walking towards her, shaking his shoulders and head to cast off the cold.
Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to do anything stupid?
That was you promising me, not the other way around.
But why were you underwater for so long?
I dunno, I was just cooling off.
He realizes then that he’s got goosebumps all over, that his skin has tightened around his body and hardened.
It’s really cold, isn’t it?
His sister takes a step further into the water and Raúl seizes the opportunity to wrap her in a bear hug. Valeria screams. She hurls insults at him and tries to push him off. She pounds his chest with her fists so that he’ll let her go. Her skin is warm, it has retained all of the day’s heat. He feels this warmth absorbing him, enveloping him completely even though it’s him wrapping his arms around her. When they separate, they can’t stop laughing. They look at each other in bemused embarassment, the way children look at each other, and some adults, after getting in trouble.
Asshole! You’re freezing!
Raúl sits on the dry ground beside the two islands of his dry clothes and watches his sister wade in up to her waist. He tries to remember the last time they went to the beach together, but no clear image comes to him. It must have been when their mother was still alive. There were so many things they’d stopped doing after that. Their father worked, Valeria went to university. It was no one’s fault. Things had simply moved in that direction, without anyone planning them that way. Neither for good nor for ill.
Shit! I left the hare out!
He realizes that the glass tureen has been sitting on the dirt path beside the car and he retraces his improvised path back to the Renault 19. The underwear has stuck to his body and irritates his skin now that he’s started to sweat again. Behind him, Valeria is still wading deeper into the water. He’s not sure if she heard him. Not that it matters. He scrapes his ankles on the way up and feels the brush digging into the soles of his feet. He wishes he was back in dry clothes.
Back at the car, he’s surprised, for some reason, to find the tureen undisturbed. He was expecting an animal: a fox, a wolf, a dog. There aren’t even any bugs crawling on the plastic film on top. Maybe the meat has already spoiled. He lifts the plastic slightly and inhales. It smells of oil, spices, and something stronger. Something wild that could be the hare’s fear, or its shock.
Raúl picks up the tureen and decides to put it in the trunk, where it’ll be safe and out of the sun. At first, when he opens the trunk and sees all of these things inside, he can’t make sense of it. A beach chair, a sleeping bag, two cardboard boxes full of clothes, a blanket, another smaller box with books, magazines, and photos, a toiletry bag, a camping stove with a tiny blue gas canister, a bag of food, and a fourth box with some kitchen utensils—a shiny glass, white plates, a burnt pot. He has to redistribute the items in his mind to understand what they make up in their entirety, to see beyond such well-classified disorder. Valeria lives here. His sister is living out of her car.
He puts the hare inside without looking too hard, in the first spot he can find, and closes the trunk. His heart hammers in his chest. He hears Valeria call out to him in the distance.
The car doesn’t shine; its red is like the color of unripened cherries. They lie down on the hood to take in the sun.
Will it hold us? Raúl asks.
Of course!
Valeria throws their dry clothes in the back seat and lays beside him.
Let’s hang out here until we’re not cold anymore, she says, putting on her dark sunglassses again.
In truth, Raúl doesn’t know what he wants to say to her, or if there’s something he wants to tell her. He’s not sure, either, whether the fear he feels is for her or for himself. He places his forearm over his eyes before asking:
So, do you see Aunt Ana much?
I already said I don’t. Why do you keep asking?
I dunno. The hare, I guess.
Some flies land on his stomach and he remembers that in this place, every bug bites, unlike in the city.
Sometimes I visit her, we have lunch, we put on the news, Valeria says suddenly. But that’s all.
Okay.
Raúl turns over to look at her. He performs the motion slowly, afraid that the windshield will crack under his weight. It would be like a car accident in slow motion, rewound.
I thought you didn’t like Aunt Ana?
I don’t. She’s just so alone. She spends all day in that apartment. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against being alone, but I don’t think she chose it. When I lived with her she always acted like she was expecting someone. Everything always had to be tidy, we always had to have a plan for lunch, for dinner, nothing could ever be spontaneous. At first I thought it was because of me: I was her guest and she wanted to impress me, but after a while I realized that wasn’t it, there was some other person who never appeared.
Ah.
There are wispy clouds in the sky.
It’s important to decide whether or not you want to be alone, Valeria says. It has to be a conscious decision, you know? Otherwise, you end up stuck like that, in limbo, not knowing what to do, thinking one day someone’s going to come and tell you exactly what you need to hear. That’s the worst possible situation: not being in control.
Raúl searches for his sister’s hand and strokes the back of it. He thinks about the golden depths of the reservoir, the warm interior of the Renault 19. He doesn’t want to return to Vigo, or go to A Coruña. Here, where they are now, Sonia doesn’t exist. Or their father.
Then Valeria asks:
What happened to the hare?
I tossed it out, I figured it must have gone bad after being in the sun all day.
When his sister finally looks in her trunk that night, or the morning after, this day will already be irreplicable. Raúl knows that lies don’t last as long as well marinaded meat. He knows that the hare had no choice. That it either resisted until the very end, or couldn’t resist at all. It’s not a choice that gets made. Never. He squeezes his sister’s hand and closes his eyes.
A lebre
Non, no maleteiro non, que está feito un cristo. Mellor deixa a mochila no asento de atrás.
Raúl dá media volta e abre polo lado do copiloto. Alí, guindadas, atopa tres revistas, un par de sandalias de coiro e un enorme ramo de hortensias. Son azuis e están envoltas en papel de periódico.
As flores son para Sonia?
Non, parvo. Son para mamá. Eu nunca roubaría flores para Sonia, Valeria sorrille con complicidade e a Raúl non lle queda máis remedio ca sorrir de volta. É sempre así: el ataca primeiro, pero só ela sabe como facer que incline a cabeza. Dobrégao.
Roubáchelas?
Tecnicamente todo o mundo rouba flores cando as arrinca, non?
Non, claro que non. Se fuches ti quen as plantou e as coidou non estás roubando nada. Ou se son silvestres.
Iso é relativo, róuballelas á terra, ao talo, ás raíces…, falan por enriba do teito do coche, cada un do seu lado da mesa de ping-pong. É un xogo que coñecen ben.
Non sexas ridícula!
Unha furgoneta branca pita xusto detrás deles. É un mediodía de xullo en Vigo e Valeria aparcou en dobre fila.
Sube ao coche e deixa de molestar, queres?
Antes de subir, Raúl ten que erguer do asento un cacharro transparente, unha especie de sopeira.
E isto?
Iso deumo tía Ana. Déixao atrás, dille Valeria mentres arrinca o coche. Saca a man pola ventá para tranquilizar o condutor da furgoneta e comeza a manobrar. Ou non, mellor detrás non. Impórtache levalo contigo? É que pode caer e entón si que a armamos boa.
Raúl nin sequera contesta. Amarra o cinto e agarda a que saian da avenida de Madrid. Repara en que Valeria está especialmente morena, con esa cor salvaxe dos nenos no verán. Leva postos uns vaqueiros clariños e unha camiseta vermella de tiras, a xogo co coche. Engordou bastante dende a última vez que se viron. Aínda que os dous viven na mesma cidade, quedan pouco.
Súa irmá mudárase había unha década a Vigo para estudar tradución. Ao principio vivira coa tía Ana, despois en pisos compartidos. Mamá morrera no seu terceiro ano de carreira.
Quizais queiras volver coa tía, dixéralle seu pai daquela.
Prefiro que me enterren.
A tía Ana é a irmá máis vella de súa nai. Sempre viviu soa nun apartamento grande en Urzaiz, gústalle facer excursións por España nos veráns e traballa na administración da Policía Nacional, expedindo o DNI e o pasaporte.
Ás veces ves cada cousa! O outro día, por exemplo, veu renovar unha rapaza que tería vinte anos, a pobriña traía a cara completamente queimada. Terrible! A boca era un burato. Parecía unha careta. Levaba coma un gorriño de la… Non creo nin que tivese pelo. Se vísedes que guapa saía no DNI vello! Uns labios, unhas pestanas… Non o quixo levar de volta, iso si. Non imaxinades a mágoa que me deu ter que tiralo.
A rapaza queimada —que ás veces varía de idade e non sempre ten o rostro igual de arrasado— sae a relucir cando se lle pregunta á tía polo seu traballo. Non hai por que pensar que o conto é mentira, mesmo podería ser unha persoa distinta cada vez. O mundo acolle máis desgrazas das que aparecen nos xornais. En calquera caso, o único detalle que non varía entre as diferentes versións da historia é o guapas que foran aquelas mulleres antes do accidente, o bonitas que saían na antiga foto de carné. Valeria e Raúl sempre creron que súa tía é lesbiana ou asexual.
Avanzan a golpes. O tráfico a esa hora é coma un neno aprendendo a tocar o violín.
Raúl fíxase no interior da sopeira sobre o seu regazo. Está cuberta con filme transparente e dentro, flotando entre o aceite e as herbas, entrevense unha ducia de pezas diminutas de carne cos seus osiños. Hai unha rama enteira de tomiño, un costelar, unha pata e outros anacos que non é quen de identificar a primeira vista. Parece un crebacabezas.
É coello?
Non, lebre. Das que cazan os tíos.
Os tíos son os tíos de súa nai, os seus tíos avós. Viven en Mazaricos e son donos dunha cooperativa leiteira que se converteu en algo así como o orgullo familiar. Súa avoa, a nai de súa nai e mais da tía Ana, é a única dos irmáns que quedou fóra do negocio. Mudárase de ben nova á Coruña e traballara sempre de dependenta nunha droguería do centro. A súa recompensa, dicía, eran as dúas fillas funcionarias. Agora só unha.
E ves moito a tía Ana?
Non, só de cando en vez.
A lebre é para Sonia?
A lebre é para papá, contesta Valeria con desgana, mirando á fronte. Cansou de xogar con el.
Frean nun paso de peóns. No coche do lado unha nena bótalle a lingua a Raúl. Míraa fixamente un anaco. Quérea asustar, pero non lle sae.
Viaxan á Coruña para celebrar o aniversario de Sonia, a moza nova de seu pai.
Raúl escollera Vigo por dúas razóns. A primeira era que Valeria xa estaba alí. A segunda, que Vigo representaba un lugar intermedio: o suficientemente lonxe como para buscar escusas se non lle apetecía volver á casa, e o suficientemente preto como para que seu pai non puxese obxeccións na mudanza.
Verdadeiramente, o precedente da viaxe de Valeria non era bo. Nunca rematara os estudos e sempre estaba embarcada en traballos para saír do paso. Ata onde el sabía, seguía compartindo piso. De cando en vez seu pai preguntáballe por teléfono se se vían, se quedaban para tomar café ou para xantar. Ao principio dixéralle a verdade. No seu primeiro ano de carreira vira a Valeria en Vigo tres veces: dúas saíndo pola noite e outra polo seu aniversario, cun croissant e unha candea no Parque de Castrelos. Cando notou que a preocupación de seu pai se convertía en insistencia comezou a mentir, a imaxinar falsos encontros e conversas banais que eran sempre máis ou menos as mesmas e que seu pai mastigaba satisfeito. O groso da relación coa súa irmá nos últimos anos estaba feito dese recheo para coxíns.
Afortunadamente Raúl non tivera que vivir coa tía Ana. Mamá xa morrera había catro anos e, niso si, poida que a experiencia de Valeria axudase. Segundo seu pai, sobre a familia da nai pairaba unha sorte de maldición. Era coma se esa morte os alcanzase a todos dun modo estraño. Valeria estaba dentro dese todos e seu pai, consciente ou inconscientemente, culpaba desa contaminación a tía Ana. Vía en Valeria e na tía un dúo inseparable.
Como están as de Vigo?
Raúl nunca entendera moi ben en que momento se producira aquel cambio. Por que seu pai decidira que a cidade e a convivencia no piso da rúa Urzaiz modificaran o ADN de súa irmá. El sabía tan ben coma Raúl que Valeria non soportaba súa tía. De feito, rírense xuntos das fotos que ela subía ao Facebook visitando vilas manchegas era das poucas cousas que os tres podían facer comodamente durante minutos, sen teren que esquivar silencios.
O coche cruza a ponte de Rande e parece que o tráfico flúe mellor. Ao fondo da ría, onde deberían estar as illas Cíes, hoxe só hai brétema. Brétema e luz. É coma unha inmensa lámpada de quirófano. A Raúl chóranlle os ollos e aparta a vista. Proba a encaixar entre as pernas o cacharro de vidro, pero é demasiado grande. Decide rodealo cos brazos e apértao contra a barriga ata atopar unha postura cómoda.
Ao mellor habería que chamar a papá e dicirlle que non nos agarden para comer, non cres?, Raúl ten que berrar. Levan as ventás do coche baixadas e a forza do vento entrando ocúpao todo.
Que va! Se imos pola autoestrada! Sobre as dúas e media estamos alí. Despois mira o reloxo de pulseira e engade: ou ás tres, como moi tarde ás tres estamos.
Vale, ti saberás.
O coche é un Renault 19 vermello de segunda ou terceira man. Ten que ter, ano arriba ou abaixo, os vinte e un de Raúl. E, salvando unha queimadura de cigarro na tapicería dun dos asentos de atrás, diríase que está impoluto. Pero é mentira. A última vez que montou nel, descubrira un cheiro a podre que era insoportable. Fora o pasado Nadal.
Pódese saber que rata morreu no teu maleteiro?
Non sexas esaxerado!, Valeria golpeouno con forza no brazo. Levaban postos os abrigos e non lle doeu. A calefacción e mais o aire, por suposto, había moito que xa non funcionaban.
Non, en serio, que é iso? A que cheira?
É que lle entra a auga.
Ao coche?
Si, se chove moito entra a auga e acumúlase na parte de atrás. O que cheira é a humidade, supoño. A auga estancada. Non sei moi ben como solucionalo, contestoulle con seriedade.
Deberías levalo a un taller.
Si, claro.
Valeria non parecía moi convencida, así que continuou. Quixo axudala.
Ou vendelo. Tamén o poderías vender e intentar comprar outro. Seguro que papá te pode axudar.
Si, Raúl, claro que si.
Esa tarde Valeria pasou calada o resto do traxecto.
Normalmente viaxa á casa en tren, pero cando sabe que van coincidir no piso da Coruña, Valeria intenta que vaian xuntos no seu coche. Ao principio pensou que ela só estaba cedendo á insistencia de seu pai, despois soubo por Sonia que non se falaban.
Tes que convencer a túa irmá para que cambie. Teu pai está preocupadísimo. Non nos colle o teléfono, case non vén pola casa. Non sabemos nada. Onde traballa? É que nin iso nos di. Imaxina que vergonza para teu pai, non saber dicir onde traballa a filla cando lle preguntan. A ti seguro que che fai caso. Todo isto é unha desgraza. Creme que non cho diría se non o fose.
Sonia é sempre así de esaxerada, así de rotunda. É viúva, coma seu pai, pero fala coma a tía Ana, coma se fose viúva dende sempre. Esa é unha propiedade que vai no timbre das súas voces, no xeito en que ordenan a información. Ese día, Raúl soubo que súa irmá rompera con todo, pero confirmou tamén que o levaba en coche por vontade propia e non obrigada polo seu pai. Por primeira vez en tempo sentiu dentro unha calor, un nó. Estáballe axudando a Sonia a dobrar un xogo de sabas.
Se cadra o problema son eu, que vos conto demasiado, foi o único que se lle ocorreu contestar para facer que calase, para distraela. Só quería estar tranquilo e decidir se cruzaría aquela ponte tan inestable que acababa de descubrir e que o levaría ata onde estaba súa irmá. Quen sabe se aquel sería un lugar mellor.
A maioría das veces son crueis con Sonia. Seu pai coñeceuna hai dous anos e xa viven xuntos.
Ti odias a Sonia, Valeria?, pregúntao sen máis, non sabe moi ben de onde saíu a curiosidade, por que agora. Na radio soa a mesma cinta de casete ca en todas as viaxes anteriores, unha con rancheiras de Ana Gabriel.
Non, non a odio. Non me gusta, pero non a odio.
Raúl asente e mira pola ventá. Encántalle a autoestrada, de neno sempre quedaba durmido cando ían en coche. Agardaba atento a que algo acontecese nunha cuneta: un espectro, un posto con froita, calquera cousa. Nunca vira nada. Como moito, algunha vez indo de noite, un raposo cruzando asustado diante dos faros.
E ti? Ti ódiala?
Non, supoño que non. Odiar é unha palabra moi forte.
Alégrame que o digas, odiar non está ben. E nós somos moi novos para o odio.
Valeria remexe no compartimento da porta do condutor e pon unhas lentes de sol escuras.
O que si me pasa por veces, engade Raúl, é que me dá pena. Esfórzase tanto, di tantas veces que nos quere…
É precisamente iso o que non me gusta dela, que insista tanto en querernos, interrómpeo mentres cambia de marcha.
As lentes de sol son tan negras que brillan.
Parece que me quedou a carteira na casa, así que vas ter que pagar a gasolina e mais as peaxes, irmanciño. Eu xa poño a man de obra!
E o carné de conducir?
O carné vai sempre na guanteira, Valeria ri con satisfacción e palmea sobre o cadro de mandos do coche. Raúl non contraataca.
Non saber nada de súa irmá sempre lle pareceu normal. Tiña once anos cando ela marchara á universidade, catorce cando morrera súa nai, dezanove cando seu pai coñeceu a Sonia. Entre Valeria e mais el sempre mediara o tempo —os sete anos que se levaban e que conseguiran que nunca xogasen xuntos, que non coincidisen no colexio nin no instituto—, pero sobre todas as cousas, mediaran aqueles silencios: primeiro mamá, despois Valeria deixando a carreira, despois seu pai traendo a Sonia para xantar por primeira vez. Eran cousas das que non falaban.
A estación de servizo está especialmente concorrida a esa hora. Hai un pequeno restaurante xunto á gasolineira e xa pasan das dúas do mediodía. Paran a carón dun surtidor.
Vou estirar as pernas, se non che importa. E desembarazarme un pouco da criatura, dille a Valeria acenando cara á lebre despezada. Por que non mercas auga fría? Eu espero a que nos atendan.
Baixan do coche e guíndalle a carteira a súa irmá. Atrápaa coas dúas mans. Sorrín.
Raúl apóiase contra o capó. Vai calor e sente que lle pesa a cabeza. No interior do Renault 19 paira aínda con forza o aroma bravío e vexetal das hortensias, un cheiro que agora se mestura co perfume a gasolina. Sempre lle pareceu estraño que houbese xente á que a atraese aquel recendo. Escoitara algunha vez que os pacientes de quimioterapia teñen un sabor constante a ferruxe na boca. Esa mesma sensación lle deixan a el as gasolineiras.
Poña trinta euros.
Séntese inmediatamente ridículo por tratar a aquel empregado de vostede. Puido dicir simplemente: “trinta euros”. Terá a súa mesma idade. Se cadra menos. Leva posta unha viseira e un polo laranxas. Todo corporativo. O bíceps ténsalle a costura da manga. É máis ben delgado. Raúl rodea o coche e vaise movendo dende onde está ata apoiarse no maleteiro, máis preto do rapaz e do surtidor. O rodeo consegue que ese achegamento pareza casual.
Chaman polo empregado dende outro coche. Raúl xírase e apoia as mans sobre a carrocería vermella. Está algo mareado.
Pódese saber que fas?
Valeria bérralle dende a porta do restaurante. Ten os brazos colmados —dúas botellas grandes de auga, un sándwich, unha bolsa de patacas fritas— e camiña rápido cara a el camiñando rápido. Raúl non entende nada.
Non che dixen que non abrises o maleteiro?, móvese con violencia en cada paso, cun balanceo animal. O empregado da gasolineira xírase en dirección a eles mentres teclea nun dos surtidores.
Non abrín o maleteiro, aclara Raúl baixando a voz e erguendo as mans.
Fíxase en como a suor empeza a embazar a cara de Valeria. É coma un xeado acabado de sacar do envoltorio.
Toma, a túa auga.
Golpéao coa botella no peito e monta no coche.
Raúl busca a mirada do rapaz da gasolineira unha última vez. Está de costas, camiñando cara á tenda. O drama, a escena, nin sequera foi o suficientemente interesante para retelo alí. Nin a el, nin a ninguén. Todos marchan.
Están parados no aparcadoiro da estación de servizo coas ventás abertas e a música baixa. Levan en silencio polo menos cinco minutos, rancheira e media. O sol dálles directamente e Raúl sabe que se está queimando. Valeria, en cambio, parece non inmutarse, protexida polo seu moreno de troglodita. Dá un longo suspiro.
Non me apetece nada ir á casa.
Raúl non contesta.
Non me apetece ver a papá, non me apetece ver a Sonia. Non me apetece xantar con eles, nin durmir alí.
Para xantar xa non chegamos, Raúl ri e Valeria devólvelle o sorriso.
Que che parece se te levo a ti e despois dou volta? Dilles que fuches en autobús, que te deixei tirado… Inventa o que queiras, todo me parece ben.
Non tes por que quedar a durmir, contesta Raúl desandando o camiño da conversa, intentando tomar as rendas.
Valeria reclina o seu asento ata que desaparece. Poida que o faga para que o sol non lle dea na cara. Raúl intenta imitala, pero é imposible conseguilo cunha man agarrando a lebre embalsamada da tía Ana, así que queda como está.
Deberiamos avisar de que non chegamos para xantar, advirte.
Si.
Nota o cansazo na voz de Valeria. Son os restos do que quedou tras a furia: un regato pequeno, un vento agradable. Cada vez falan máis baixo, acoplándose ao volume da música.
As putas hortensias. Levo todo o camiño pensando nas malditas hortensias.
Por que? Son bonitas.
A Raúl gustaríalle escoller un adxectivo mellor, algo máis específico que a consolase.
Non se ven o un ao outro mentres falan e iso fai que todo se deteña. Iso e mais a calor. O ambiente recórdalle aquela única vez que se confesara cun cura. Tamén era xullo e estaba a piques de facer a primeira comuñón. Mentiu porque tiña medo.
Non son bonitas, son enormes. Xigantes para colocalas nos floreiros dun nicho. Quedarían espantosas. Non sei en que momento pensei que sería unha boa idea.
A min gústanme. De verdade.
A min tamén, pero non serven.
Sempre llas podes regalar a Sonia!
Valeria volve rir. É a segunda vez. Raúl leva a conta. Fai un escorzo e xírase sobre asento para mirala. Valeria quitou as lentes de sol e está deitada, abandonada á forza da luz que entra pola ventá de atrás. Ata ese momento Raúl só podía recordar a súa irmá sendo máis grande ca el, pero a partir de agora só poderá pensar nela estando máis cansa, alí tendida. Ese non é un cansazo que desapareza durmindo. É máis ben algo que se arrastra a diario e vai collendo forma, adaptando o corpo ás súas demandas.
E ben?, continúa Raúl.
Que?
Que lle vas regalar a Sonia?, chancea.
Ten o pescozo tenso pola postura e súalle o brazo co que agarra o cacharro de vidro. Valeria arrinca un gallo pequeno dunha das flores de hortensia e colócallo entre os labios. Raúl déixao estar un anaco aí, despois cúspeo con forza ata que cae no ombro de súa irmá.
Fallaches!
Diso nada, non apuntei á cara, di mentres volve mirar á fronte. Apuntei a matar, ao corazón. Rin ambos.
O Renault 19 está sempre limpo, ordenado. Iso tranquilízao. A harmonía que hai dentro dese coche é o máis preto que está de ter algunha certeza sobre a vida de súa irmá. Algo que poida saber con seguridade sen ter que preguntarllo.
Era guapo o rapaz da gasolineira, non che parece? Sabe que Valeria está mirando fóra ou ao teito mentres o di porque a súa voz chégalle apagada.
Aparcaron mirando á autoestrada. Hai bastante tráfico e vistos de lonxe os coches parecen ir máis lento do que realmente van, coma os glóbulos vermellos nos vídeos das clases de Bioloxía.
Si, si que era guapo.
Gustábache?
Raúl xírase de novo e mira aos ollos da súa irmá. Nota, polo xeito en que os ten abertos, por como adianta a cabeza, que está ilusionada.
Non estaba mal.
Valeria ri por cuarta vez e iso fai que se sinta ben. Conseguir que ría faino sentir útil, ancórao a ese momento concreto, no interior impecable do coche, nesa calor mesta.
Non te ofendas, pero creo que lle ían máis as tías.
Pois coma a min.
En serio?
En serio.
Iso si que non o esperaba!
Valeria incorpora de novo o asento. Está mordendo o labio.
Vou avisar entón de que non imos, resolve Raúl mentres saca o móbil do peto do pantalón.
E que facemos? Queres volver a Vigo?
Xa que estamos aquí, podiamos ir ata algunha praia. O xantar témolo feito, di mentres levanta triunfal o cacharro de vidro coa lebre amoreada dentro.
Coñezo un lugar aínda mellor.
Raúl teclea rápido. Non se atopaba ben. Estiveron agardando ata o último momento, pero vailles ser imposible viaxar, así que Valeria e mais el irán mañá á Coruña. Parabéns para Sonia.
En Santiago collen dirección Negreira e, pasada a enorme granxa de Feiraco, a medida que a paisaxe vai achandando, Valeria corre máis. Achéganse ao lugar onde naceron seus pais. A estrada é cada vez máis recta e Valeria acelera. Na zona hai moitos accidentes que acaban en sinistro, case sempre nas primeiras horas da mañá. Coches cargados de rapaces novos —máis novos aínda ca Raúl e Valeria— que volven de festa e se esnafran incomprensiblemente cun sol feble como única testemuña. Iso non lles sucederá a eles. Están viaxando ao pasado.
Durante uns minutos só ven prados, terra traballada. As únicas árbores están alí para marcar os límites entre os terreos.
Imos ver os tíos?, pregunta Raúl.
Agora non, se cadra máis tarde.
Fascínao que todos os irmáns da súa avoa cacen. Practican sobre todo a caza menor: lebres, perdices. Sempre que saían nunha das súas partidas, chegaban tarde ao xantar. Ulían a monte e traían nas mans varios ganchos cheos de animais mortos. Eran coma grilandas. Dos anzois enormes colgaban penduradas polo pescozo todas aquelas criaturas miúdas. Un remexido de peles e plumas suavísimo. Marrón, de todos os marróns posibles, como as estacións da terra. O balanceo, o cambio de tons entre uns e outros, creaba unha ilusión de movemento, converténdoos nun único ser redondo e veloz. Raúl nunca oíra un disparo, así que para el, aqueles animais ben os poderían recoller os seus tíos polo camiño, coma faragullas de pan que os levasen ata a casa. Por que, se non, ían chegar tarde a xantar?
Pensa en todo iso mentres a lebre despezada segue bailando no seu colo co tremor do motor.
Aparcan á beira dun camiño sen asfaltar, levantando po cando frean. Valeria baixa do coche e quedan mirando na mesma dirección. Un nunca se afai á visión dun encoro, nunca é capaz de imaxinar o seu fondo. Raúl sae, pousa o cacharro de vidro no chan e apoia os brazos sobre o teito do Renault 19. Agora mesmo aquilo é unha enorme superficie brillante. Se un se fixa, entre as estrelas que crea o reflexo do sol, a chaira treme e é dun gris verdoso e escuro.
Estás tola, moumea.
Valeria mírao facendo viseira coas mans e comeza a andar ladeira abaixo, buscando un camiño entre as herbas altas para chegar á auga.
Non o podes dicir en serio!, bérralle desta volta, pero o único que ve xa da súa irmá son ombros, o pescozo, a cabeza. Vaina tragando un carreiro improvisado en zigzag.
Corre detrás dela.
Cando chegan á beira, a auga apenas se move. Non hai ondas, non existe a marea. Unha vez máis, entre tanta calma, é difícil non temer o fondo do encoro. O que o aterroriza é que ese lugar non forma parte da natureza, foille imposto. Teme que haxa un prezo que pagar por crear aquilo, por roubarllo á paisaxe.
Valeria xa está quitando os vaqueiros, así que Raúl apura desabrochando o cinto. Deixan posta a roupa interior. Non é o medo a que outros os vexan, senón a vérense entre si. Non se coñecen tanto.
Prométeme que non vas facer o parvo, dille a Valeria.
Prométocho.
Entón Raúl bota a correr. A auga está fría e golpéao nada máis poñer un pé dentro. Segue avanzado e cando sabe que entrou ata a cintura, afúndese con todo. Baixo a superficie, a auga do encoro ten unha luz dourada. Raúl toca coas dedas o fondo lamacento. Sabe que hai que ter coidado, todo está cheo de desniveis e hai que buscar un lugar onde facer pé. Agarda uns segundos nesa postura, contén a respiración. Cos ollos abertos baixo a auga, decátase de que o sol está alí, somerxido con el. Hai tres ou catro horas súa irmá recolleuno en Vigo e ía calor, e vira aquela luz das Cíes, tan insoportable que o fixera chorar. Pero isto é outra cousa. Aquí a luz está nos grans diminutos de terra que flotan ao seu redor. É algo moito máis difícil de ver e por iso sabe que o sol se agochou alí, ao seu carón.
Impúlsase para saír á superficie e peitea o pelo coas mans para apartalo de diante dos ollos. Cuspe.
Volve aquí! Agora mesmo!
Valeria está aínda na beira, metida ata os xeonllos. Raúl ri e vai camiñando ata ela mentres sacode os brazos e a cabeza para quitar o frío de enriba.
Non quedamos en que non iamos facer o parvo?, dille súa irmá.
Iso prometíchesmo ti a min, non ao revés.
Pódese saber por que tardaches tanto en saír?
Eu que sei, só me estaba refrescando.
Decátase entón de que ten a carne de galiña, de que a pel se lle apertou ao corpo e se endureceu.
Está moi fría, non?
Súa irmá dá un paso máis para entrar na auga e Raúl aproveita e abrázaa forte. Valeria berra moitísimo. Insúltao e intenta zafarse. Golpéao cos puños no peito para que a solte. A súa pel está quente, leva gardada a calor de todo o día. Sente que esa morneza o absorbe, que o rodea enteiro aínda que sexa el quen a abrace a ela. Cando se separan, non poden parar de rir. Míranse con vergonza e alegría, como os nenos miran os demais nenos e algunhas persoas maiores.
Idiota! Estás xeado!
Raúl senta na beira, a carón das dúas illas que debuxou a súa roupa seca, e mira como súa irmá entra ata a cintura. Intenta lembrar cando foi a última vez que foron os dous xuntos á praia, pero non aparece ningunha imaxe precisa. Seguramente súa nai aínda estivese viva. Deixaran de facer moitas cousas despois daquilo. Seu pai traballaba, Valeria estaba na universidade. Ninguén ten culpa de nada. As cousas simplemente foran pasando daquel xeito, sen seren planeadas. Nin para ben, nin para mal.
Merda! Deixei a lebre fóra!
Decátase de súpeto de que o cacharro de vidro quedou no camiño de terra, a carón do coche, e comeza a desandar o sendeiro improvisado ata o Renault 19. Os calzóns pegáronselle á pel e moléstanlle agora que xa volve comezar a sentir a suor. Ás súas costas, Valeria séguese metendo na auga. Non sabe se o escoitou. Tanto ten. A medida que sobe ráscase nas xestas e sente como se lle crava a herba na planta do pé. Bota de menos a roupa seca.
Ao chegar á estrada, non sabe por que, sorpréndese de atopar o cacharro coa lebre intacto. Esperaba un animal: un raposo, un lobo, un can. Nin sequera os insectos se pousaran sobre a cobertura do filme transparente. Se cadra a carne xa está estragada. Levanta un pouco o plástico e ule. Cheira a aceite, a especias e a algo máis forte ao fondo. Algo salvaxe que podería ser o medo da lebre ou a súa sorpresa.
Raúl colle o cacharro e decide metelo no maleteiro, onde non lle dea o sol e estea a salvo. Ao principio, cando o abre, nada máis ver todas aquelas cousas amoreadas, non entende nada. Unha cadeira de praia, un saco de durmir, dúas caixas de cartón cheas de roupa, unha manta, outra caixa máis pequena con libros, revistas, fotografías, un neceser, un fogón de gas coa súa pequena bombona azul, un bolsa con comida e unha cuarta caixa con algúns utensilios de cociña —un vaso brillante, pratos brancos, unha tixola queimada—. Tenlles que dar unha nova distribución aos obxectos na súa cabeza para entender o que compoñen, para ver alén daquela desorde tan ben clasificada. Súa irmá está vivindo no coche. Valeria vive nun coche.
Entón, mete dentro a lebre, sen mirar, onde atopa sitio, e pecha o maleteiro. O corazón bátelle con forza. Escoita a Valeria chamando por el, ao lonxe.
O coche non brilla, ten un vermello esbrancuxado, como a cor das cereixas cando aínda están verdes. Deitan sobre o capó para tomar o sol.
Soportará o noso peso?, pregunta Raúl.
Claro que si!
Valeria mete a roupa seca no asento de atrás e téndese a carón del.
Agora deixámonos estar aquí ata que quitemos o frío de enriba, dille poñendo de novo as lentes de sol negras.
En realidade Raúl non sabe o que lle quere dicir, ou se hai algo que queira contarlle. Tampouco sabe se o medo que sente é por ela ou por si mesmo. Pon o brazo sobre os ollos antes de preguntar.
E ves moito a tía Ana?
Non, xa che dixen que non. Por que mo preguntas tanto?
Non sei. Pola lebre, supoño.
Póusanselle moscas no abdome e lembra que alí todos os bechos morden, non coma na cidade.
Ás veces vouna visitar, xantamos xuntas, poñemos o telexornal, irrompe Valeria. Pero máis nada.
Xa.
Raúl xira a cabeza e deita de lado, mirando para ela. Faino amodo, temendo que o cristal do coche ceda baixo o seu corpo. Sería coma un accidente de tráfico a cámara lenta, rebobinado.
Crin que non che gustaba a tía Ana.
E non me gusta. É só que está moi soa. Todo o día naquel piso. E non me entendas mal, eu non teño nada en contra da soidade, pero non creo que ela a escollese. Cando vivía na súa casa sempre se comportaba coma se estivese agardando por alguén. Todo tiña que estar recollido, sempre había que facer algo de xantar, de cear, nunca se improvisaba nada. Primeiro pensei que era por min, porque eu era a súa convidada e me quería impresionar, pero despois decateime de que non, de que había alguén máis que non chegaba nunca.
Ahá.
No ceo hai unhas nubes esfiañadas.
É importante decidir quedar só, continúa Valeria. Ten que ser un acto consciente, entendes? Porque se non, quedas así, á intemperie, sen saber moi ben que facer. Pensando que vai chegar alguén algún día e dicirche exactamente iso que necesitas escoitar. Ese é o peor estado de todos: cando non tes o control.
Raúl vai buscando cos dedos a man da súa irmá e acaríñalle o dorso. Pensa no fondo dourado do encoro, no interior quente do Renault 19. Non quere regresar a Vigo, nin ir á Coruña. Aquí onde están, Sonia nin sequera existe. Tampouco seu pai.
Entón Valeria pregunta:
E a lebre?
Guindei con ela, con tanto sol debía estar xa estragada.
Cando súa irmá mire no maleteiro do coche esa noite, ou á mañá seguinte, o día de hoxe será irrepetible. Raúl sabe que as mentiras aguantan menos que a carne ben adobada. Sabe que a lebre non tivo elección. Que, ou ben se resistiu ata o final, ou non puido exercer resistencia. Non é algo que se decida. Nunca. Aperta a man de súa irmá e pecha os ollos.
Ismael Ramos (Mazaricos, 1994) is a Galician-language writer. He is the author of the poetry collections Os fillos da fame (The Children of Famine), Lumes (Firelights), and Lixeiro (Easygoing), for which he won the Spanish National Poetry Prize for poets under 31. In 2023, he published A parte fácil (The Easy Part), a collection of short stories and his first book of fiction, which was co-published in Spanish and Catalan by two of the most prestigious presses in their respective languages. His work has been translated into English, Catalan, Finnish, French, Hungarian, and Portuguese, and has been featured in various anthologies and magazines.
Jacob Rogers is a translator of Galician and Spanish. He has received grants from the National Endowment of the Arts and the PEN/Heim Translation Fund, and he has helped coordinated features of Galician literature for Asymptote, Words Without Borders, and The Riveter. His translation of Manuel Rivas’ The Last Days of Terranova was published by Archipelago Books in 2022, and of Berta Dávila’s The Dear Ones by 3TimesRebel Press in 2023. He has translations forthcoming from Sublunary Editions and Lost River Press.
