Gaspar returned to his game with the bottle and cups and the other boys greeted him with a cheer.
They stayed until sunset. Juan didn’t move from the bed Tali had improvised for him until Gaspar wanted to get in the water again for a while, before night fell, and Juan took him. He made his son swim with his head both out of the water and under. It was still a rudimentary crawl, but he did it well; he still couldn’t swim on his own for long, but he did it well for as long as he could.
“He’s a fast learner,” the mother of the sandcastle boys said to Juan when they came back to the beach.
Juan said yes, he was pleased. The woman, who was young, had sat with Tali drinking mate while he took Gaspar swimming; now she offered them chipá and croissants. You love these, said Juan as he handed a chipá to his son. Gaspar bit into the bread and smiled as he remembered: he had eaten this several times, years before, in Puerto Reyes. Juan ate one too, and before he put on his pants, he took his medication from the pocket. He swallowed the pills unashamedly in front of the woman; instinctively, she offered him a cup of soda to help.
“Oh, it’s great how you can take them all together,” she said. “Me, when an antibiotic is really big, I can’t get it down. I must have a problem with my throat.”
Juan smiled at her.
“I’m just very used to it.”
“I was just telling your wife that if you feel like it later, we all get together and play chamamé over there near the beach. There’ll be more people coming with guitars.”
Juan shot Tali a surprised look and she explained: “The police don’t give much grief around here when people get together.”
“The military either,” said the woman. “A few years back they’d break everything up, but now they let it go. They’re loosening up. You’re invited, with the little one too, it’s family-friendly.”
“Want to go?” Juan asked Gaspar. “They’re going to play music.”
“Do you want to?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Yeah.”
“You need to rest,” said Tali in a low voice, and Juan came over to her, caressed her hand and told her don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.
“There’ll be empanadas, too,” added the woman in an effort to convince Tali.
“See? That way you won’t have to cook.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Juancito, please.”
They didn’t stay long. Tali thought the empanadas were too greasy, but Gaspar liked them. Isn’t it a little strange for a kid to eat anything? she asked Juan, and he replied that honestly, he didn’t know any other kids, but his son had always been like that—feeding him was the easiest thing in the world, he’d even get bored of always eating the same thing and ask for more variety. There wasn’t much dancing except for a few couples who swayed lazily to “Puente Pexoa” and “Kilómetro 11.” The evening was heavy; across the river and beyond the trees the sky was clear, a sign that the night would be cloudy, and there was a wind that provided no relief—the humid wind of a storm. The sandcastle boys’ mother found them and offered them some sopa paraguaya, neatly cut into portions. The smoke from the grill carried the smell of meat, and Tali asked Juan for money to buy a sausage. As she was waiting in line she listened to the conversations of men who were already drunk—some of them leered at her with bloodshot eyes; in another time she would have had Juan deal with them, but now she wanted to avoid any fights. They were drinking wine that was sold by the liter in car oil cans with the edges pounded over to avoid any cuts. To distract herself from them she focused on the music, and she realized the musicians were no longer playing chamamé. She turned around, and through the smoke and the tenuous light given off by a few bulbs and a kerosene lantern, she saw a girl with her long hair pulled back who was singing a lovely zamba: Tengo miedo que la noche me deje también sin alma, la a?era es la pena buena y es mi sola compa?ía. When she went back to Juan, who was sitting on a stump and smoking, he said to her, “If she were singing that anywhere else she’d be arrested, they’d arrest us all, you’re lucky here. The girl is really pretty, do you know her?” Tali hit him on the head and his blond hair fell over his face; suddenly, Juan looked like a teenager.
“No, I don’t know her. And we’re not sticking around here so you can get to know her.
“You’ll have to forgive me, my dear, but I much prefer zamba to chamamé,” Juan said.
The girl kept singing: Y en cada vaso de vino tiembla el lucero del alba. And after she greeted her listeners and introduced herself, she said she was going to sing a very sad song by a singer who was sick; she didn’t name the singer, and Juan whispered to Tali that he must be banned. No sé para qué volviste, si ya empezaba a olvidar, no sé si ya lo sabrás, lloré cuando vos te fuiste, went the song, y que pena me da saber que al final de este amor ya no queda nada. Juan told her he didn’t know much about music, Rosario was the one who listened, but he knew that song was by Daniel Toro. “And he is indeed banned, even though they’re love songs. Rosario always said it was stupid to ban him because his songs were all sappy, there was nothing political about them.”
Sappy love songs, thought Tali. And here she was brought to the verge of tears by to one of those sappy songs. Rosario, you always were a mean one, chamiga. My sister, she thought, how I miss you.
“Still, I really don’t know if things have calmed down or not,” she said. “Every time someone comes to have their cards read, I see death, death, so much death. You know what I see? A war. Not here, but in the ocean, in the cold. I can’t bring myself to tell people, because then they won’t trust me anymore.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Juan.
Gaspar yawned. Time for bed, son? Did you eat enough? Yeah, the soup without water was really good. It really was delicious, Tali agreed. The girl with the guitar announced her last song, and as Tali started up the car, she heard “Gracias a la vida.”
“That girl is brave,” said Juan. “And come on, let’s get out of here, Rosario used to spend all day listening to this with Betty and I don’t want Gaspar to remember.”
Gaspar was already asleep on the backseat. The way to Tali’s house was a dark dirt road, and she drove it fast: she’d gotten stuck in the mud several times. Still, the storm didn’t break; it was just distant thunder, lightning, and that humid imminence. As a girl she’d been afraid of storms, but now, after so many years, she didn’t mind them unless the river overflowed. The floods didn’t reach her house, which was built on a hill, but almost no one else had that luxury.
“Put him in my bed,” said Tali, after turning off the light. “I’ll sleep on the mattress tonight. Your son needs you, sleep with him.”
Juan didn’t argue, just undressed Gaspar and turned on the fan. The house was cool. Tali waited for Juan on the living-room sofa. Neither of them felt sleepy.
“You want to petition the saint for your health?”
“Tali, that won’t do any good.”