The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra by Pedro Mairal Read Free Book Online Page A

barely visible beneath the surface, floating through the clouds of reflected water.
    This is where everything begins to be flattened by the gusting wind of time. People are suddenly horizontal, swept along by the invisible current. The tree branches flail about, the animals, rain, everything slants to one side, unable to resist. Further on still, they start to appear upside down, to turn tail, until at a moment of complete loss of balance when I think my father must have been close to going mad, the universe tips over completely, the landscape does a somersault, the sky is at the bottom and the land at the top, as though my father were once again seeing the world with the fear of dangling from the stirrup of a horse galloping out of control among the trees.

20
    Jordán's house had no bell, so I clapped my hands. A curious yellow puppy came out, then the black dog from the previous day appeared. The house was at the back of a small lot; it was a square building with two rooms and a bare cement front. Next to it stood a trellis vine that gave shade. I was about to leave again when I heard a sneeze. Jordán was inside, but he hadn't heard me. I called out to him. Still no reply. I opened the gate and went in. The dog growled and pranced about, but I tried to walk on without looking down at it. When I got close to the house it gripped my trouser leg. I started shouting “Get off me!” but it wouldn't let go. Then Jordán appeared, his hair tousled. He shooed the dog out of the way, and peered at me in astonishment.
    “I'm Salvatierra, do you remember me?”
    “Aha.”
    “Forgive me for entering like this, but I was clapping my hands and ...”
    “Come on in,” he said.
    We went into one of the rooms, which turned out to be a kitchen. It had no light, only a table and a few chairs. On the wall there was a small, round mirror and a calendar with photos of rodeo riders demonstrating their skills. I sat down and Jordán put some water on for mate tea. I noticed his right hand was bandaged. He sat in the far corner of the room while the water boiled.
    “Don’t you practice on the accordion anymore?”
    “No,” he replied, bending to reach for something behind him. “Now I practice on my shotgun.”
    He was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at me. I was once robbed in a Buenos Aires taxi, and they pointed a revolver at me, but I never saw it because it was pressed into my ribs. The guy must have been a cop, because he had short hair and was very calm. This was different. A crazy old man whose hands trembled was pointing a gun meant for blasting capybara straight at my face.
    I started to rise to my feet, warning him to be careful.
    “Sit down or I’ll blow your head off,” he said.
    I sat down and he stared at me.
    “So, Salvatierra ... Still after the same old thing, are you?”
    “After what?” I asked.
    “That little painting of yours.”
    “Yes, but why don’t you put that gun down, Jordán? We can talk about it peacefully, there’s no need to threaten me.”
    “You owe me.”
    “Owe you?”
    “You’re nothing but a henpecked asshole.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is that shotgun loaded?”
    “Orbea 16 mm cartridges. Two shots. One to make you suffer, the other to finish you off.”
    “Stay calm, boss. I’m going to leave now. Tomorrow without fail I’ll bring what you say I owe you. Agreed?”
    “Agreed, nothing,” he replied angrily.
    I fell silent and didn’t move. The water was already boiling. Jordán’s finger was on the trigger. He was pointing it at my head, but the weight of the gun-barrel meant it kept dropping towards my stomach. Every so often, he jerked it up again.
    “You’re a liar as well as a traitor. The guy who couldn’t speak is not so dumb after all.”
    “I’m not Juan Salvatierra, Jordán. I’m Miguel, his son.”
    “And I’m General Perón. You owe me half a load of white horse that was stored in the shed.”
    “What white horse?” I