Mapuche (54 page)

“He, he, he . . . ”

Yes, Franco Díaz had gone mad. Rubén pulled on the chain around Díaz's neck.

“Where did she go! Goddammit, tell me!”

“There . . . ” He pointed toward the woods, his fingernails full of dirt. “There . . . I beg you, unchain me.”

Farther north. He had to believe him, there was no other choice. Rubén turned toward the trees in the drizzle and without saying a word left the captive to his fate. The botanist's pleas quickly faded away behind him; he called out Jana's name in the forest, several times, but his legs could hardly carry him. He was breathing with his belly, his mind vague in a crystalline body. He no longer knew if he was getting lost, losing her, losing everything. The Glock in his jacket weighed a ton, the clips in his pocket seemed to be pulling him down.

“Jana! Jana!”

Tears of impotence welled up in his eyes as he called, in vain. He had lost his bearings and was walking without knowing where he was going. The lion's cage, the orphans' little steps, Elsa, Daniel . . . History was stammering. Rubén was losing hope in the middle of the forest when a dog appeared through the brush. A mongrel with a dirty coat that yapped strangely as it trotted toward him.

“Where did you come from?”

It was hard to tell whether his tail was wagging or he was starving to death. He sniffed the stranger, held up his graying muzzle as a sign of something or other, pawed the ground, and turned round him like a carousel. To whom could such a fleabag belong except Jana? The animal seemed to be waiting for him. Rubén followed him through the woods. The sun was coming through intermittently, he was boiling with fever, but this scruffy dog was somehow familiar and clearly knew where he was going. The pine trees became less dense. The dog turned around and looked at the man coming along behind him, as if to urge him to hurry, but Rubén was already on the verge of breaking down. A gunshot suddenly cracked in the damp air. It came from farther up the slope, three hundred yards perhaps. The old mission. Rubén hurried forward, his heart in his mouth. Every yard cost him a life, but this dog, the pale sky, and the rain no longer existed: two figures were lying higher up among the ruins.

A woman with black hair and a bald giant towering over her who was pummeling her face with his fists. The sutures on Rubén's back were cracking open, and he could feel the blood running down under his clothes, or else he too was going crazy. A bad dream.

“You wanted to do me in, huh? You wanted to do me in!”

Parise was breathing so hard to expel his hate that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching behind him: when he turned around, he saw two gray blades speckled with blue staring at him, and the black mouth of a Glock.

Rubén immediately pulled the trigger. His head thrown backward, the giant spun briefly around before falling to the ground. A cloud of gunpowder evaporated. Hit at point-blank range, Parise's head had exploded. The dog yapped, frightened. Sensing a presence, Rubén pointed his pistol to the right and saw the old man trembling against the wall. Ardiles. He was holding his bandaged arm against his body, crouched among the thornbushes and moss-covered stones, without a weapon. Jana was not moving, crushed by the weight of Parise's body. Rubén knelt down and moaned as he pulled the brute's 250 pounds off her.

“Jana . . . ”

Bits of gelatinous flesh had landed on her. She was inert; Rubén could see nothing but her dreadful face under the cracked paint, and didn't know what to do: her nose, lips, eyes, all the blood that was flowing out of her. He found the necklace of cut-off ears on her breast and shuddered with horror.

“Jana,” he murmured. “Jana . . . ”

The arches of her eyebrows had been shattered by Parise's blows, her broken nose had been reduced to a pulp, her mouth split. No bullet holes or wounds, only the poison of barbarism in her veins. Rubén tore the bloody necklace off her neck and threw it away.

“It's over,” he said, holding her. “It's over.”

The drizzle was falling on the ruins. Her hair was sticky with blood. He rocked her, imploring her to live.

No, Jana was a brave woman, she couldn't die, not now, not after all they'd been through. He shuddered when he felt her pulse against his heart. She sighed and opened her eyes, subdued.

“Rubén . . . ”

Her voice rose up out of the depths of time. Had he become a ghost, like her? The Mapuche remained incredulous for a moment, staring at Rubén, her eyes full of pink tears, and then she saw Diesel at her side, sniffing the killer's body. Everything became clear and real again: the ruins of the old mission, the pale light of morning, the drizzle. Stupefying seconds. Rubén.

“I thought . . . they'd killed you,” she murmured.

“No.”

Jana hugged him with all her strength and the hate that had been twisting her stomach into knots for days seemed to disintegrate. Rubén had brought her back from the dead. He said comforting words to her, words of love, as they embraced each other, to give her time to realize her terrible mistake. The gentle rain cooled their faces; Jana's had been only a mask of pain; bloody tears were running down her cheeks, but she no longer felt them. Rubén tried to help her up but he was the one who staggered. She saw his pallor, the arm he could hardly move, the pieces of his blue soul that clung to life.

“Will you be O.K.?” she asked.

“Yes.”

There was water at the campsite, and the descent through the woods would take them to the clearing where Díaz was waiting for them, chained to his tree. The Grandmothers needed the testimonies of the ex-agent of the SIDE, the general, and the others. They would all be put on trial, right down to the last one. Diesel was mounting a needless guard over Ardiles, who was watching them from the thornbushes, his eyes glassy. Jana put Rubén's arm over her shoulder to help him walk. He would walk. They would never leave each other again—never.

Their enemies called them the Auracans, the rabid ones. The Mapuche kicked the old man on the ground.

“Get up, you dirty son of a bitch.”

An
abrazo
to the Magnificent Seven, my faithful companions in adventure, constant from Niceto to La Mascara; to Sergio Nahuel, the all-purpose photographer; to Daniela, Leslie, and Karla, the little Mapuche fairy picked up on the road of the
machi
; to Miguel and Barbara,
flores
and nightime ramblings in Buenos Aires; to Nicolas and Emilie Schmerkin for the forename, the contact, and your humane parents; to the delicious Rodolfo De Souza and Marilù Marini of the book theater; an
abrazo
to Sophie Thonon, a pugnacious lawyer, and to Rosa the subtle
Abuela
; to Danielle Mitterand's France Libertés Foun­dation; to the Argentine Collective for Memory, Alicia in Paris and the others; to you, the girls; to Fabien the anthropologist and to the help provided by Quai-Branly; to Florent for the information about aviation; to my readers Clem and Stef of the Collectif des Habits Noirs; an
abrazo
to you, Aurel, for the words that were needed; to Susana's placid patience during the preparatory courses (“
Las putas al poder!
”); to Florence Malgloire for the first apartment in San Telmo; to Eugenio for the Breton
asado
in the delta; to Jose and his Mapuche brothers detained in Chile (
Pewkawal!
)—but that's another story . . .

Caryl Férey's first novel to be published in English,
Zulu
(Europa Editions, 2010), was the winner of the Nouvel Obs Crime Fiction and Quais du Polar Readers Prizes. In 2008, it was awarded the French Grand Prix for Best Crime Novel.
Utu
(Europa Editions, 2011) won the Sang d'Encre, Michael Lebrun, and SNCF Crime Fiction Prizes.
Mapuche
is his third novel to be published by Europa Editions. He lives in France.