Maybe it was true what they said about Adela’s father, that he’d been disappeared by the military.
Now, at the campground, Vicky and Adela were sharing a tent. The adults slept in the RV. Adela was happy not to have gone to her grandparents’ country house. I like it there, but it’s always the same. They have horses but they’re ugly, with fat feet, not at all like Arabian horses. And there’s nothing around, all the other houses are far away. The pool is nice, though. The girls talked about all kinds of things before going to sleep. Adela confessed to Vicky that she liked Gaspar. I already knew, said Vicky, I don’t know why you didn’t tell me sooner. And Adela, who was lighting her face with a flashlight, replied, Because he’ll never go for me, he won’t want to go out with me because I’m deformed. And he’s so cute, Vicky. Isn’t he cute?
They were allowed to leave the campground a little and walk under the trees, and they could also dip their feet in the river, though they weren’t permitted to swim; the water was too cold, anyway. Betty taught them to bury their used toilet paper—there were filthy people who left it hanging in the branches and it stank—and how to defend themselves from the horseflies, which were big and buzzing. At night, Betty and Vicky’s parents drank wine and sang songs with the guitar: Vicky liked one really sad one that said “y en las multitudes el hombre que yo amo.” She was surprised because Betty knew a lot of songs and could even play the guitar. One night, Betty and Vicky’s mom took turns singing Violeta Parra songs. Betty sang very well: in the night breeze, her green silk dress rippled like the river and Vicky pictured her with a rifle in the fields. Someday, she’d get up the nerve to inquire about her life, but for now, Betty intimidated her. Plus, she drank a lot of wine every night. They had bought a bunch of bottles of Chilean wine, which, apparently, was better than the Argentine kind.
At night, Vicky and Adela ventured into the woods to tell stories. They didn’t go far: they could still hear the conversations at the campground, and even the showers if someone went late to bathe. They didn’t invite other kids: they hadn’t managed to make friends with any. They sat across from each other and passed the flashlight back and forth, holding it under their chins so the light would distort their faces. They told stories about axe murderers and cannibal ghosts. Adela talked again about the black dog that had torn off her arm, and also about the shadow of the hanged man that appeared in their neighborhood in Buenos Aires, and some of her other classic horror tales. Vicky went along with the stories until one night when Adela said, Look what I found. Someone left it in the dining room, with some park guides and books and maps of Patagonia. They’re myths and legends from around here. Most of them are pretty boring, but listen to this one. Adela opened the book and read. It was a story about the island of Chiloé, in the south of Chile. There was a sect that lived there called the Brujería. They had two other branches, one in Buenos Aires and another in Santiago. They met in an underground cave, in a forest like the one they were in now. The faithful were called novitiates and they were initiated, that’s what it’s called. To get into the sect a person had to kill their best friend and skin them: they used the skin to make a vest that shone in the darkness. Imagine, I’d have to skin you! Adela laughed, but that laugh scared Vicky. She put her shoes on over her socks, and when she closed her eyes, she saw Omaira’s ashen hands clutching a branch, Omaira in the mud. Anyway, they’re really evil. You can distinguish the victims of the sect because the witches leave scars on them. And this is the worst part, said Adela. There’s a guard in the cave where the Brujería meets, it’s called an imbunche. It’s a baby between six months and a year old that the witches kidnap and deform. They break its legs, hands, and feet. When they’re done breaking everything, they turn its head around like with a tourniquet until it’s looking over its back, like in The Exorcist. Finally, they make a deep cut in its back, below the shoulder blade, and they stick its right foot in that hole. When the wound heals and the foot is stuck inside, the imbunche is complete. They feed it with human milk and then, when it’s ready, with human flesh, too. It must walk like a half-crushed bug.
They jumped when Betty appeared out of nowhere. What are you two talking about? she asked, angry and drunk. Adela tried to reassure her by showing her the book, but Betty grabbed it furiously and clutched it to her chest. Go to bed now, both of you, and quit talking nonsense. She was shaking. You’re really drunk, Adela murmured, and Betty turned around and ran off: the girls watched in surprise as she threw the book of myths and legends into a bonfire.
That night, Vicky and Adela slept in an embrace. Vicky didn’t dream about Omaira. She dreamed about a child with his head twisted around and a leg stuck into his chest, not his back. A boy who had a scar just like Gaspar’s dad’s, except it wasn’t dry, it was bleeding. Adela told her later that she had also dreamed about the imbunche. You know where it was? And Vicky could guess the reply. In the house, she said. Adela nodded. In my dream it was the guardian of the house, she said.
Two days later they went back to Esquel. Even though it was summer it was cold at night, and they could light a fire. There was a lot of wood already cut and piled up beside the house, protected from the rain by a roof. One morning they needed to cut more and Betty took care of it: she perspired under her jacket and her hair stuck to her temples. Betty bought a bottle of whiskey in Esquel, for the cold, she said, and Adela got mad, but quietly. She told Vicky later that she was ashamed for other people to see her mother drunk. Betty drank the whiskey without ice, and sometimes sat staring into the fire. They all went together to a ski center called La Hoya; they couldn’t ski because they didn’t have money for the equipment or an instructor, but they took photos and drank hot chocolate in a lovely sweetshop. Betty mentioned in passing that she had skied when she was younger, but she’d never liked it because she fell a lot. Where? Vicky asked. In Mendoza, said Betty. At a resort called Las Le?as. That’s where the famous people go, said Vicky. Isn’t it expensive? My parents could afford it, said Betty. Her parents? Those sad old people who came to Adela’s birthdays? They were rich? People really are strange, thought Vicky.
The ride back from the south in the RV had been pretty boring. Everyone slept a lot, and, Vicky thought, Betty must have been drinking on the sly, because she always refused to drive. Vicky wasn’t tired when they got back, not like the adults, who went straight to bed. After saying goodbye to Adela and having something to eat, she went to visit Pablo. He had gone to the coast, and his vacation had been awful, he said. His parents fighting, his mother crying because she thought she was going to lose the baby, a lot of rain and cold. The only thing he’d liked was the hotel. His parents had reserved a suite, which meant he had a kind of apartment all to himself. Wow, said Vicky, they have money now? Pablo had to admit they did. His own room had a TV, and he could stay in and watch when it was raining. That, and eating in the port: those were the only good things. I’m sorry, said Vicky, we had a great time. Is Gaspar back yet? I have no idea, Pablo admitted. When I went by it was all closed up, and I didn’t want to knock. I haven’t gone today.