“My husband and son are off on the island,” said the woman, as if Juan understood what she was talking about. The house at the back had a cement floor, and on the patio a teenage girl was sweeping with a broom made of palm leaves. The house, whose rooms were separated by curtains of plastic strips instead of doors, was surprisingly cool. Juan saw an open bottle of wine and an arrangement of plastic flowers on the table, and prayer cards to Our Lady of Itatí on the walls, delicately framed. The refrigerator hummed loudly.
“In here,” said Mrs. Karlen, and she opened the plastic curtain on to a small room with a single bed and a window whose shutters were closed.
Juan had to blink to get used to the darkness, and he laid Gaspar down carefully. The woman disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small aluminum pot with water, ice, and a cloth. Juan thanked her, and she asked if he wanted potatoes. Yes, said Juan, but I’ll cut them myself, you have to watch the store. It’ll only take a second, said the woman. I don’t know how to thank you, said Juan, but Karlen’s wife ignored him.
Juan removed the pillow so it wouldn’t get wet and had Gaspar lie on his side. He knew from experience that this was the best position, and it would also keep the boy from choking on vomit if his nausea returned. He soaked the washcloth in the pot of icy water and put it on Gaspar’s head like a hat. Mrs. Karlen brought in several thin slices of potato, and Juan placed them on Gaspar’s forehead. When the boy let go of his hand, when he fell asleep with his mouth open and his eyes covered by the cold cloth, Juan thought about leaving, getting into the car and abandoning him there at that grocery store in the middle of nowhere. It would be best for you, son, he thought. He imagined Gaspar grown up, working behind the counter or maybe even sailing a jangada. If he abandoned his son, Gaspar would grow into a furious and silent man, but the world is full of men like that. He left the room. Outside, the girl who had been sweeping asked in a quiet voice if the boy was feeling better, and Juan told her he was sleeping and would be fine when he woke up. Good thing my brother and my dad are out, so we have room. Otherwise, I’d have given him mine, but my brother’s is better. Where are they? Juan wanted to know. At the mill, on the island. You have a sawmill? It’s just for making fruit boxes. Lemons and oranges. Go on, sir, if you like, and have something to eat at the store, she told him. If your son wakes up, I’ll let you know. I’m going to take a nap for a couple hours, but I sleep real light.
The kindness of strangers, thought Juan. Hadn’t he met too many generous and disinterested people? Was it a sign? Could he be in some kind of trap, a setup of some kind? He closed his eyes to concentrate better while he walked toward the grocery. He couldn’t sense anything lurking. The cicadas shrieked, the birds were silent, an ancient violence throbbed out in the fields, and he could also sense the more recent brutality, but nothing that was directed at him or his son. What he did feel, though, was the blast of desire from the stranger in the Peugeot, who had introduced himself as Andrés.
Now there were two truckers eating at the table on the grocery’s deck: one was finishing a plate of pasta, while the other nibbled distractedly at a sandwich. The other two were still there, drinking and leaning against the railing, and they were talking about something called a manguruyú. Juan tried to remember what the word meant: it was a fish, he thought. One of the men was saying, “I’m uglier than mackerel and cooked mate for breakfast,” and Juan smiled: the man really was ugly. His face was scarred from some childhood disease, and he was chubby and short. He reminded Juan of the typical images of el duende de la siesta, the evil elf used by Corrientes parents to scare their kids into being good during their midday naps.
Andrés, the stranger with the Peugeot, emerged from the grocery with Mrs. Karlen, and after inquiring about Gaspar he asked what Juan wanted to drink, as if he worked there. The fact that he did not was made clear by his mannerisms, by his accent straight out of Buenos Aires’ Barrio Norte, and by the quality of his clothes.
“A soda. Good and cold, if they have it.”
“They do, you can’t imagine how high they crank the coolers around here.”
Juan raised an eyebrow. He could imagine.
“Do you work here?”
“I stayed with them a few days, and since they won’t accept cash, I’m helping out before I take off.”
Andrés struggled to open the Crush. He was nervous. He didn’t sit at the table until the two truckers left and the ones at the railing, now quite drunk, went to rest under a willow tree. Juan only then realized they were very near a lake.
“Don’t you don’t want to eat anything?”
“Maybe later,” said Juan, and he sat looking at the empty bottle of Crush he had downed in three gulps.
Andrés smoothed his longish curls and explained what had brought him the grocery. He was a photographer, he told Juan, working on a project about the Argentine littoral. He referred to it like that: “a project.” He photographed people, mostly. The Karlens had let him into their private lives, and he had photographed them not only in the grocery and at home, but also at the sawmill on the Paraná island, where at night the black howler monkeys shrieked and fought. He talked about the trip on the river: by motorboat on the way there and by jangada back. He also talked about a dance he’d photographed just two nights before: the Karlen kids had taken him there on a tractor, because the rain had turned the dirt roads to mud. Juan listened attentively. Why Corrientes, why this area? he wanted to know.
“Because I don’t know Argentina,” said Andrés. “I lived in Italy for many years.”
“Why did you come back? Aren’t you scared of the military?”
Andrés gave a start.
“Don’t get paranoid,” said Juan.
“And where are you two headed?”
Juan knew he owed Andrés an explanation; plus, it was the only way to reassure him. The photographer had been friendly, though perhaps he wasn’t entirely disinterested. It hadn’t been easy, but eventually Juan had come to recognize the effect his appearance had on both men and women. He had learned to understand the desire of others, and to use it, even when he wasn’t capable of enjoying it.
“We’re going to visit my in-laws, in Posadas.”
He wasn’t going to tell the truth, exactly, but he could give Andrés a believable parallel version, realistic and transparent.
“They’re rich. We could have flown, but I wanted to make the trip by car. I don’t know the country very well either.”
There was no point in lying anyway, because Gaspar, of course, would talk when he woke up, and he was always oddly talkative after a migraine. So he told Andrés that he was a widower, and that it was the first time he had traveled alone with his son.
Mrs. Karlen, through the grocery’s door, overheard their chat and rushed to bring Juan a plate of milanesas with mashed potatoes, saying he had to eat something. Then she announced that she was also going to take a nap.
“I’ll let you know if the child wakes up. And come check on him whenever you want.”
Andrés wanted to know how his in-laws got rich, and Juan told him they owned an important lumber company. Then Juan asked if he could use the hammock chair that was near the door, and Andrés said yes and brought another from inside the store. He also brought out two beers. Juan took money from his pocket and asked the photographer to add it later to the register, or wherever the Karlens kept their money. He asked for another soda. I don’t want to drink alcohol before driving, he said. I thought you would stay longer. No, I have to be in Posadas tomorrow.