Fiasco (9 page)

"Your brother isn't back yet from his trip?" asked the gaunt woman.

"No doubt he's sitting on the Tooth of Mazumac and looking in our direction," replied the host, who had moved into the gap left for him between the chairs.

He ate quickly, with appetite. Aside from this exchange, the dinner passed in silence. When the servant had filled the last mugs of coffee, whose aroma mingled with the sweetish smoke of the cigars, the gaunt woman again spoke:

"Mr. Vanteneda, you must continue for us today the story about the Eye of Mazumac."

"Yes, yes," everyone urged.

Mondian Vanteneda complacently folded his fingers on his large belly. Then he shot a look around the table, as if closing the circle of his listeners. A dying log crackled in the fireplace. Someone put down his fork. A spoon clattered, and everything was still.

"But where did I leave off?"

"Don Esteban and Don Guillermo, learning of the legend of Cratapulq, departed for the mountains, to reach the Valley of the Seven Red Lakes…"

"All throughout their journey," Mr. Vanteneda began, making himself comfortable in his wheelchair, "the two Spaniards met no man or beast. Only now and then they heard the cries of coasting eagles, and occasionally a vulture flew overhead. After much exertion they gained the ridge of the Dead Hand. They saw then, before them, a high arête, like the back of a rearing horse, the misshapen head hanging into space. The crest, sharp like a horse's neck, was covered with mist. Then Don Esteban remembered the peculiar words of the old Indian from the lowlands: Beware the mane of the Black Stallion. The two debated whether or not to push on. Don Guillermo, as you recall, had a sketch of the mountain chain tattooed on his forearm. Their supplies had run out, though they had traveled only six days. So they ate what remained of the salted, dried rope-meat and quenched their thirst at the spring that bubbled beneath the Severed Head. But they could not get their bearings in this region; the tattooed map was incomplete. Toward sunset, the mist began to rise like a swelling sea. They proceeded up, ascending the back of the Horse, but although they hurried until the blood rang in their ears and they were fighting for breath like expiring animals, the mist moved more quickly and caught them on the very neck of the Horse. In the place where its white shroud enveloped them, the ridge had narrowed to no wider than the handle of a machete. Thus, unable to walk, they sat astride the ridge exactly as one sits upon a horse. Surrounded on all sides by the impenetrable, damp white, they continued forward until darkness fell. When they had no more strength, the ridge came to an end. They did not know whether this was the sheer drop of a precipice or the way down to the Valley of the Seven Red Lakes, of which the old Indian had told them. So they sat the entire night, supporting each other by leaning back to back, warming themselves with their own body heat, and resisting the night wind that whistled across the ridge like a knife whetted on a stone. If they dozed off they might fall into the abyss, so they did not close their eyes for seven hours. Then the sun rose and dispersed the vapors. They saw that the rock beneath their feet fell away, as perpendicular as if they had been sitting atop a wall. Before them gaped an eight-foot breach. The mist tore into shreds against the neck of the Horse. They recognized then, in the distance, the dark Head of Mazumac, and saw columns of red smoke, mingled with white clouds, rushing upward. Bloodying their hands, they scrambled down a narrow ravine and reached the topmost pothole of the Valley of the Seven Red Lakes. Here, however, Don Guillermo's strength completely failed him. Don Esteban went first onto the ledge that hung over the abyss and led his comrade by the hand. They proceeded until they came upon a pile of stones where they could rest. The sun was high, and the Head of Mazumac began to spit bits of rock at them, chips from the overhangs. So they fled down. When the Horse's Head above them had grown as small as a child's fist, they saw the first Red Spring in a cloud of ruddy foam. Then Don Esteban took from his breast pocket a bundle of thongs tanned the color of acanthus wood, the fringes of which, painted red, were twisted into numerous knots. He ran his fingers over these, reading the Indian writing, until finally he guessed the correct way.

"Before them opened the Valley of Silence. They crossed it on enormous boulders. The crevices between the boulders were bottomless.

"'Are we near?' asked Don Guillermo in a whisper, for his throat was parched.

"Don Esteban made a sign for silence. At one point Don Guillermo stumbled and kicked a small stone, which set others in motion. In response to this sound, the vertical walls of the Valley of Silence began to smoke; a silver cloud covered them, and a thousand clubs of limestone hurtled down. Don Esteban, who just then was passing beneath an arched structure, pulled his friend into that shelter as the crushing avalanche reached them and rushed past like a storm. In a minute, all was silent again. Don Guillermo's head was bleeding from a flying chip of rock. His comrade took off his shirt, tore it into strips, and bound the wound. At last, when the valley became so narrow that the sky above them was no wider than a river, they saw a stream that flowed over rocks without the least sound. Its water, bright as a polished diamond, fell into an underground channel.

"Now they had to wade knee-deep into the swift, icy current. It undercut their legs with cruel force. Soon, however, the water turned to the side, and they stood on dry yellow sand in front of a cavern with many windows.

"Don Guillermo bent over, weak, and noticed how curiously the sand gleamed. The handful that he raised to his eyes was uncommonly heavy. He brought it to his mouth and chewed the stuff that filled his palm. He realized that it was gold.

"Don Esteban remembered the words of the Indian and looked about the grotto. In one corner blazed an upright, frozen, completely motionless flame. This was a block of crystal polished by the water, and above it was an opening in the rock. The sky shone through.

"He approached the translucent block and looked into its depths. In shape it resembled a huge coffin driven into the ground. At first he saw within it only millions of glimmering lights, a bewildering whirl of silver. Then it seemed that everything around him grew dark, and he beheld great sheets of birch bark parting. When these vanished, he saw that at the very center of the block of ice someone was watching him. It was a copper face full of sharp wrinkles, the eyes narrow like blades. The more it watched, the more evil grew its smile. Cursing, he struck the rock with his dagger, but the point glanced off harmlessly. At the same time, the copper face and its twisted smile disappeared. Because Don Guillermo seemed feverish, his comrade kept the secret of the vision to himself. They moved on. The grotto spread into a network of corridors. They took the widest, after lighting the torches they had brought. At one point a side corridor opened like a black well in the gallery floor. Air hot as fire blew from it. They had to jump across. Farther on, the passageway constricted its throat. For a while they went on all fours, then came to a place so narrow that they had to crawl. Then suddenly the passage widened. They could kneel. When the last torch burned low, the ground began to grate underfoot. By the torch's small remaining light they saw that they knelt on gravel made of pure gold. Still they were not satisfied. Having found the Mouth of Mazumac and its Eye, they wished to see also its Gut. Suddenly Don Esteban whispered to his comrade that he saw something.

"Don Guillermo peered over Don Esteban's shoulder in vain.

"'What do you see?' he asked.

"The end of the smoldering brand was already burning Don Esteban's fingers. He stood. The walls were gone; there was only a great darkness, in which the torchlight made a reddish grotto. Don Guillermo saw his friend step forward, and the flame wavered, casting enormous shadows.

"Then from the darkness came a giant spectral face suspended in the air, its eyes directed downward. Don Esteban cried out. It was a terrible cry, but Don Guillermo understood the words. His comrade invoked Jesus and His Mother, and men like Don Esteban used such words only when face to face with death. As the scream resounded, Don Guillermo covered his face with his hands. Then there was thunder, fire engulfed him, and he lost consciousness."

Mondian Vanteneda leaned back and gazed silently at his guests. He was dark against the background of the window. The sky, cut by the sawtooth silhouette of the mountains, turned purple in the gathering dusk.

"In the Araquerita, upstream, Indians hunting stags fished out a white man who had around his shoulders an air-filled buffalo skin. The back was cut open and the ribs broken and spread out like wings. The Indians, fearing the troops of Cortes, tried to burn the body, but the cavalry of Ponteron (called the One-eyed) chanced to stop at their settlement. The corpse was taken to the camp and Don Guillermo was recognized. Don Esteban never returned."

"But, then, how is this whole story known?"

The voice was discordant, jarring. The servant entered with a candelabrum. The light of its flickering flames revealed the face of the questioner, lemon-colored, with bloodless lips. Mr. Vanteneda smiled politely.

"I gave you, at the beginning, the tale of the old Indian. He said that Mazumac saw everything with his Eye. The Indian expressed himself somewhat mythologically, perhaps, but in essence he was right. This was the beginning of the sixteenth century, and few Europeans knew about the possibility of amplifying the power of sight through lenses. Two giant mountain crystals—whether created by the forces of nature or fashioned by the hand of man, it is not known—were situated in the Head of Mazumac and in the grotto of the Gut in such a way that, looking into one of them, one saw everything near the other. An unusual periscope, made by two shining prisms separated by a distance of thirty kilometers. The Indian who stood at the summit of the Head saw both trespassers sacrilegiously enter the Gut of Mazumac. And possibly he not only saw but was able to effect their destruction."

Mr. Vanteneda made a quick movement with his hand. On the table, into the circle of orange light, fell a bundle of thongs tied into a thick knot at one end. The faded hide was marked with deep incisions. The thing rustled as it fell, it was so old and dry.

"So there was someone," concluded Mr. Vanteneda, "who observed the expedition and left an account of it."

"Then you know the way to the cave of gold?"

Mr. Vanteneda's smile grew more and more wooden, as if, along with the vanishing peaks in the window, it was receding into the silent, icy, mountain night.

"This house stands at the very entrance to the Mouth of Mazumac. When a word was spoken in the Mouth, the Valley of Silence repeated it with mighty thunder. It was a natural, stone loudspeaker, a thousand times more powerful than an electric one."

"How…?"

"Ages ago, lightning struck a flat, smooth slab and melted it into a mass of quartz. The Valley of Silence is the same valley that our windows overlook. Don Esteban and Don Guillermo came from the direction of the Gate of Winds … but the Red Springs have long since dried up, and a voice will not bring down stones. Apparently, the valley was a resonator and certain frequencies of sound loosened the limestone pinnacles. The cave was closed by an earth tremor. There was a hanging rock there, which like a wedge held apart two walls of stone. The tremor knocked it from its place, and the walls closed forever. As to what occurred afterward, when the Spaniards attempted to force their way through the pass, and who set off the avalanche of stones on the column of Cortes' foot soldiers—we do not know. And I do not think that we ever will."

"But my dear Mr. Vanteneda, walls of rock can be blown up, penetrated with machines, and water can be pumped out of caves, no?" said the squat gentleman at the end of the table. He lit a thin cigar with a straw.

"You think so?"

Mr. Vanteneda did not hide his irony.

"There is no force that can open the Mouth of Mazumac if He does not wish it," he said, pushing himself suddenly away from the table. A gust extinguished two candles. The others burned with a blue flame, and flakes of ash fluttered above them like small moths.

He thrust his hairy hand before their faces, grabbed the bundle of thongs from the table, and spun his wheelchair around with such force that the rubber of the tires squealed. The guests rose and began to leave. Dr. Gerbert sat bemused, staring at the dancing flame of a candle. From the open window came an ice-cold current of air. He shuddered—chilled—and turned to look at the servant, who was carrying in and setting down an armful of heavy logs in front of the burnt-blue grate of the fireplace. Skillfully the servant scattered the embers, and was building over them an ingenious roof of firewood when someone opened another door and touched the wall. The whole interior again was transformed in an instant. The fireplace of rough stones, the servant at the hearth, the chairs with sculptured armrests, the candlesticks, candles, windows, and the mountain night beyond them all vanished in an even, diffused light. The wide table with the place settings also vanished, and in a white, small room under an oval, concave, smooth ceiling only Dr. Gerbert remained, in a single chair, before a square surface that held his plate and a half-eaten joint of meat. This was all that survived of the table.

"Amusing yourself?
Now?
With old cock-and-bull stories?" asked the newcomer, who, switching off the scene, with some difficulty removed the inflated, transparent wrap that covered his fluffy jump suit buttoned to the neck. Finally he tore the wrap, with difficulty pulled it down off his boots that shone like metal, threw it away crumpled, and ran a thumb down his chest, at which the suit opened wide. He was younger than Gerbert, shorter, his bare neck muscular above the collarless shirt.

"It's only one. We agreed to meet at two—and the histology I know by heart—"

Dr. Gerbert lifted the packet as if a little embarrassed. The other man unfastened the thick tops of his boots, shuffled over to the metal molding strip that ran along the wall, and rapidly—as if dealing cards—summoned up, in sequence, the holographic images of the dinner party, running backward; of a plain with a group of steep limestone pinnacles white in the moonlight, like the ghastly skeleton of a bat; of a sunny jungle with the colorful fluttering of butterflies among lianas; and finally of a sandy waste with high termite mounds. Each scene appeared on all sides at once, surrounded them, and disappeared, shifting into the next. Gerbert waited patiently for his colleague to tire of this inspection. Amid the flickering play of light and color, with the folder of tissue-culture photographs in his hand, he was now far in his thoughts from the show—which he had used, perhaps, to take his mind off what troubled him.