The Argentina Rhodochrosite (24 page)

49

Ainsley sat in the passenger seat
of Marcelo’s Toyota Hilux 4 x 4, a very practical vehicle for these parts.

He accelerated quickly up to freeway speeds, despite the fact that they were riding on a rough gravel road. Marcelo kept a firm grip on the steering wheel, adjusting to every small change in the gravel below.

Ainsley stared outside the window. The landscape was both romantic and terrifying. The entire Patagonian steppe was covered in a thin layer of shingle. It was comprised mostly of pebbles known as
rodados patagonicas
. She could hear them being kicked up against the undercarriage of the truck. They were the reminders of the awesome crushing power of glaciers.

Her ears detected music playing at a low level from the speakers. “You get stations out here?”

“Satellite radio,” said Marcelo. “It’s the only option.”

That made Ainsley feel miserable for a moment. She couldn’t afford satellite radio back in the United States.

Then she wondered if it was too soon to thank Marcelo for his hospitality. But then she guessed that everybody was hospitable out in the boondocks.

Ainsley cleared her throat. “So can we talk?”

Marcelo shook his head. “Not yet. There will be time later. For now, just watch.”

He pointed ahead. Ahead lay a hill, as gray and wrinkled as the dome of an elephant’s head. The road spun up and over it, and Marcelo seemed to accelerate around its bends. He was clearly comfortable on these roads.

As they crested the hill, Ainsley saw that they had risen to the next plateau. This one was a ragged patchwork of red, yellow, ochre. Stripes of pink, yellow, and brown were splashed across rocks that had been pushed up out of the earth.

And overseeing everything was a majestic mountain range.

It rose from the land like Poseidon out of the sea. The peaks were serrated, like vicious sawteeth; the flanks were streaked with white snow and gray-brown boulders, the lower slopes covered in smaller foothills. She had the dizzying sense that it actually affected the weather.

“
La cordillera
,” he said.

Then it finally hit her. These were the Andes, the so-called “spine” of South America. Turning her head, she watched the mountains stretch out forever in either direction.

They inspired something within, an excitement deep in her soul. It was the first time she’d been affected like this by anything in nature.

Marcelo must’ve known, because he said nothing. He was letting Ainsley have the moment.

“I’m just… it’s…” she stuttered, before lapsing into stunned silence. Her eyes drank in the textured slopes. Her ears listened to the sound of the bits of gravel flinging under the car, her stomach felt the gentle rise and fall in the road.

“Do you still feel like this?” she finally said. “After living here for years?”

“Every day. It keeps me young.”

“It looks like I could reach out and touch them.”

“They are seventy kilometers away.”

Ainsley stared again. She would’ve estimated less than a quarter of that. She guessed that the visibility was due to the clean air. With zero pollution, the world could be seen in crisp, pristine detail.

The Toyota tore across the plateau, up and over several more hills, moving ever closer to the mountains. Ainsley could feel the atmosphere change. It felt somehow more electric, more dangerous.

Then Marcelo cranked the wheel to the left, and pulled past a wire gate into a driveway. A hundred meters down, in a small bowl nestled between the bare scrubby hills, was a small ranch.

“My home,” said Marcelo.

He pulled up to the house, which was made of concrete blocks. The roof looked like it had been cobbled together with spare parts. It had probably been constructed by hand.

She stepped out of the car and observed the ranch. There wasn’t much to it. An open field behind the house looked like it was used for grazing. An empty corral lay nearby. There were hoofprints in the moistened dirt near the trough, evidence of recent activity.

One thing was missing. She didn’t see any cows.

“Where are your cattle?” Ainsley asked.

Marcello approached a horse had been tied to the fence. He patted its flank and checked its shoes. “My
gauchos
took them up to summer pastures four days ago,” he said. “I’m heading up there now to check on them.”

“On horseback?”

He shook his head. “I’m too old for that now. You and I will drive. We can talk there.” He glanced at her. “There is someone I want you to meet.”

Ainsley felt relief for two reasons. One, that she would finally learn the secrets of Ovidio’s rhodochrosite. Two, that she wouldn’t be forced into a saddle. Horses had held no romance for her, not since she’d been bucked at summer camp in middle school and shattered her left arm.

“Just let me clean up a few things first,” he said.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, please,” he said, “you’re a guest.”

She watched Marcelo move around the ranch, washing out buckets, hoisting bales of hay. It was hard to believe that he was considered a senior citizen. Ainsley realized that a life of physical labor either broke you or made you stronger.

Then Ainsley heard a car pull up behind her. She turned. It was another Toyota Hilux. A man climbed out from behind the wheel. He was dressed in a blue denim shirt, patched purple trousers, and an English bowler hat. He was the kind of guy who made Ainsley smile just by looking at him. She imagined that Patagonia was packed with such eccentrics. You had to be, to want to live in such an environment.

Marcelo saw the man and shook his head. “No.”

“Please,” said the visitor.

“
No
.”

“But my sheep have already arrived.”

Marcelo picked up several shovels from the muck and arranged them in his tool shed. “We shared a ride last year,” he explained, “and you made me wait two extra days while you tried to learn how to fix a fence. I can’t afford to waste that time again.”

The visitor betrayed a guilty smile. “I have no skills. Please wait for me.”

“The answer is no,” said Marcelo again. Then he gestured to Ainsley. “Say hello to my guest from the United States.”

The eccentric nodded at her. There were no kissed greetings down here at the end of the world.

“Who are you?” asked Ainsley.

“I am the Englishman,” he said.

“Is that all?”

He cracked a wide grin. He was missing several front teeth. “My grandfather built the railroad.”

“And he won’t stop reminding people about it,” said Marcelo.

The Englishman reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bird. It had a broken wing. “This is my new friend. I found her yesterday. Her name is Maria.” He lifted the bird up to his face, then turned it to face Ainsley. “Say hello to the beautiful
yanqui
.”

The bird flapped its one remaining wing in a valiant effort to escape. The Englishman gently stuffed the bird back into his pocket.

“I care for all living things,” he said sadly, “but living things don’t care for me.”

“Including your sheep,” said Marcelo.

“I only lost four this winter,” the Englishman replied. “It was a good year. Maybe I’m going to get rich after all.”

Ainsley realized that these guys had known each other a long time, and that the comedic jousting had been developed over years. Out here, they probably had to put in extra effort to be good neighbors. It was all too easy for people to turn reclusive and lose their minds.

“Are you ready to go?” said Marcelo to Ainsley.

“I’m in your hands,” she said.

“Please,” said the Englishman, “just wait until tomorrow.” He was following Marcelo across the yard like a puppy. “I can be ready by the morning.”

“Why don’t you do me a favor for once?” said Marcelo. “I’m always doing things for you.”

“Like what?”

“Two years ago, I repaired your fence when you were sick with pneumonia.”

The Englishman giggled. “Yes, that’s true.”

“The year before that, I shot the puma that was eating your sheep. It took me two days of hunting.”

“Oh yes, I forgot about that.”

“And ten years ago I chased down that
peon
who stole your equipment.”

“Okay,” said the Englishman. “It’s true. I owe you.”

Marcelo slung a couple of duffle bags into the back of his Toyota. “We’re going now. You can hang around if you want, but don’t go inside my house.”

“But I like your sofa,” said the Englishman.

“Then make one for yourself.”

“It’s too much work. When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow. Don’t go inside for any reason. Understand?”

The Englishman nodded.

Ainsley climbed into the passenger seat again. As Marcelo pulled away from his own property, the Englishman was waving goodbye.

“He is a lunatic,” said Marcelo, “and a very bad shepherd.”

“But he has a good heart,” Ainsley said.

“True. That’s why I let him hang around my ranch. But he loves to look through my house.” Marcelo thought for a minute. “Honestly, I’m surprised that he’s survived as long as he has.”

A simple door lock could solve this problem, Ainsley thought, but apparently such a device was unheard of in Patagonia.

“Anyways,” he said, “buckle your seat belt. This isn’t an easy ride.”

50

Ainsley stared at the puddle of
yellow gruel on the ground. It had issued from her own mouth just a few seconds earlier. The bitter taste of stomach acid was still on her tongue.

She was on her hands and knees, at the edge of a road dug into the side of the Andes, at more than two thousand meters altitude.

Ainsley had been able to tolerate the drive for a while, with Marcelo wheeling the steering column left, then right, then left, then right, up the endless switchbacks towards the higher reaches of the
cordillera
. But after an hour, Ainsley began to feel queasy, and then she’d mumbled something.

He’d stopped fast, nearly pushed her out. And now she was kneeling at the rim of the road, looking out over the Patagonian steppe, one of the grandest vistas in South America, with a thin trail of vomit decorating the outside of her cheek.

She watched a ugly black dot circle far below her. She squinted harder. It was a condor. Then she felt the wind kick up.

“The altitude does it to everybody,” called Marcelo from inside the car. The engine was still running.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Why don’t you come back inside? We’re almost there.”

She stood up, wiped off her cheek on her sleeve, and returned to the car. He continued the winding drive, but took the turns more slowly. “You’ll feel better when we reach Lago de Miel,” he said.

“What is that?”

“The place we are going. Where my cows spend their summers. It’s green and watered. No frost. It’s beautiful.”

“How many cows do you have have?”

“One hundred and seventeen. Not many. Just a small
criancero
. They’re weak and ugly. I don’t even know how much longer I’ll keep doing this. My son wants me to move in with him in Bahía Blanca.”

Ainsley craned her head, gazing at the escarpments, the mountain walls. She tried to imagine herself pushing a hundred and seventeen cows up the steep trails on the flanks of this mountain range. She couldn’t. It was unimaginable.

Marcelo was more amiable now, speaking openly of life on the Patagonian steppe. It was harsh, he said, but one that he had chosen over twenty-five years ago, so he had no reason to regret anything. The soil was thin, making it a difficult place to raise cattle. He was especially grateful for rainfall; when it didn’t occur, he had to buy imported hay to feed the cattle, which was expensive.

“What about the wind?” Ainsley said. “How do you deal with it?”

“It doesn’t blow like this all the time,” he said. “In fact, it’s supposed to end very soon.”

Eventually they pulled out of the switchbacks, and Ainsley heaved a sigh of relief. No sooner had the road levelled out, however, than Marcelo cranked the Toyota onto an unmarked sideroad and into a field of boulders. The truck hurtled down a twisty but level path. It was nothing more than a barely marked cat track.

Ainsley watched the giant chunks of schist, each plopped there like a demented sculpture formed by an even more demented deity. Then she clutched the handles and shut her eyes. Her stomach was feeling queasy again. She didn’t want to make Marcelo stop a second time.

Then the car stopped. “We’re here,” he said. “You can open your eyes.”

She did.

They were parked in an enormous natural bowl, its gentle flanks covered in a carpet of lush green grass. A crystal-blue lagoon lay before her, as serene as a yogi.

It was beautiful.

Ainsley stepped out of the vehicle and drank in the scenery. The wind had stopped for the moment, and the air was fragrant with lavender. A few hundred meters to the left, at the edge of the lake, were a herd of skinny black cows, their heads bent to the earth, mouths working hungrily.

“They are so happy here,” said the cattleman, watching them. “Pitiful but happy.” He sighed, then smiled. “Lago de Miel.”

“It’s amazing,” she replied.

“We spend four months a year here. I wish it could be more.”

Then Marcelo began walking towards his herd, whistling loudly. Another whistle sounded in response.

Ainsley spotted the source of the response. Two
gauchos
were on horseback in the middle of the herd. They were dressed in checked shirts, berets, and
bombachos
, the classic short balloon pants of the region.

As he drew closer, Marcelo and the men exchanged some information in fast, guttural Spanish, half of which Ainsley couldn’t understand. Then Marcelo returned to her.

“The drive went well,” he said. “We only lost two.”

“The men couldn’t find them?”

“Impossible.” He walked two fingers over an imaginary cliff and dropped them, whistling. “They’re gone.”

Ainsley noticed the
gauchos
staring at her. Marcelo shouted at them, “She is not for you, bastards.”

The two men cackled grotesquely, their toothless mouths spread open. They were pure country spirits.

“No living Christian,” muttered Marcelo, “would love them. That’s why they live with cows instead.”

Ainsley stared at the
gauchos
wheeling their steeds through the grass, applying a touch of heel here, a clipped syllable there. The horses responded to every direction willingly. It looked as though the men had been poured into their saddles. Watching a real equestrian wheel his bay around an open field was one of the more compelling sights on earth.

“They’re really good,” she said.

“That’s what I pay them for.”

“Can you ride like that?” she said.

“Never,” said Marcelo, shaking his head. “You have to be born on a horse. No, I’m just the owner. You?”

“Beginner, basically.”

He nodded. “This territory is a bad place to start. It’s good that you don’t have to ride.”

“That’s true,” she agreed. Ainsley didn’t know what she would do if she were asked to mount a horse.

Marcelo gazed at his herd, his hands on his hips. Satisfied, he grunted, clapped his hands once, then turned to his guest. “Now,
Señorita
Walker, are you ready to talk to me?”

“I literally flew halfway around the world to talk to you,” she replied.

“I’m flattered. It will be worth your effort.”

“Oh, it had better be.”

He crooked a finger. “Follow me. I want you to meet somebody.”