The Argentina Rhodochrosite (25 page)

51

They strode across the grass, through
the bellowing cattle. The smell of clover nearly suffocated Ainsley. She admired the white wisps of clouds scudding across the sky. They seemed almost within arm’s reach. It felt like heaven on earth.

“I have not always been a rancher,” said Marcelo, “as you know.”

“Indeed,” she said.

“I used to own a mine in Capillas. It never did very well.”

“The Zorro mine,” she said.

“Yes. Because we found that single vein of the rhodochrosite with a distinctive Z.”

“Bernabé told me.”

“People think I was sitting on a lot of that rhodochrosite. I wasn’t. We only found enough to make about six or seven hundred pieces. And they didn’t even sell very well.”

“They were a curiosity,” offered Ainsley.

“Exactly,” he said. “So then I marketed them in the catalogs as Zorro stones. The name was my invention. I thought it was sexy, would make them sell more quickly.”

“Did they?”

“No. A year later, I had sold only a few. I thought the vein was a failure.”

Marcelo was overcome with sadness for a moment. He stared off at the peaks. Then he recovered himself.

“Then, one day, I received an interesting call. It was from a man who had seen the Zorro advertisement in one of the catalogs. He wanted to know how many were available. I asked him how many he wanted. He said that he was looking for three hundred. I said yes, we have three hundred, and gave him the quote. He agreed, said it was a reasonable price.”

“And?”

“And when I asked for his name or address, he refused to give them to me. He said that he didn’t want them to be shipped, that it wasn’t safe. He wanted to pick them up personally.”

“Really.”

“So we agreed upon a day and time that he would come by the office in Capillas. I didn’t think he would come.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, at that precise minute. He was about my age, maybe thirty, blonde hair, dressed in a casual sweater and pants, but looking very uncomfortable. We greeted one another. I introduced myself by name. He said he was pleased to meet me, but didn’t offer his own name. He was handsome and seemed a little arrogant. He didn’t want to waste any time. In my office, we made the exchange. He gave me the pesos, and I gave him the box of stones. He examined them, and I could tell that he was thinking about many things. Then he asked me an interesting question.”

“What was it?” said Ainsley.

“The man said, ‘If you knew you were going to die, would you give this distinctive rhodochrosite to your children?’”

Ainsley’s stomach plunged into her shoes. She sensed that she was standing on the edge of something that was much, much bigger than just Ovidio. She felt like the poor fisherman in the boat glimpsing the dim outline of a battleship as it emerged out of a fog.

“That’s exactly what Ovidio’s mother did,” she said, gasping. “It was her favorite necklace before she disappeared.”

“I know that story,” he said. “Now look.”

Marcelo had led her up the grassy slope to the lip of the bowl. As they crested the rise, she felt her breath being sucked away, again. On the other side was a tremendous panorama, a vista of peaks, valleys, blue-green lakes, and far below, the flat gray Patagonian steppe spread out like a matte background.

Then she spotted something else. A tiny cabin. It was down the slope, just a hundred meters away, and had been built out of oil cans and plywood.

“What is that?” she asked.

“My summer resort,” Marcelo said. “I’m joking. The gauchos sleep there. They used to camp during the summers, but not any more. They’re spoiled now.”

Ainsley didn’t see the point yet. “So why are we going there?”

“Because inside is someone I want you to meet.”

He led Ainsley to the door and pushed it open.

The hut was primitive at best. The sour scent of men’s sleeping quarters assailed Ainsley’s nostrils. There was a table, two chairs, and a cot.

Sitting on the edge of cot was a third
gaucho
, stropping a knife against a piece of leather. He had a heavy beard, but beneath it, his face betrayed his relative youth. He was probably only in his mid-thirties. A flick of his eyes was his only acknowledgment of his visitors.

“This is Cristiano,” said Marcelo. “He has worked for me for almost fifteen years. He stays up here in the summer watching the cattle. Don’t try to speak to him. He is a mute.”

Ainsley tried to catch his eye, but he stayed resolutely down, on the stropping.

“Cristiano lost his mother in the dirty war too,” said Marcelo, “just like Ovidio. He never met her, just like Ovidio. And he has one thing to remember her by: her favorite necklace. It was given to his adoptive parents.”

Ainsley felt a heat coming over her face, the white-hot knowledge of everything, of what she was about to see, of what Marcelo’s next words would be, of the truth about this fascinating but horrible chapter of Argentine history.

Marcelo placed one hand on the man’s shoulder. His other hand went to the man’s chest, reached inside his shirt, and produced a necklace.

“Look,” he said.

“No,” said Ainsley.

“Look,” he commanded. “You need to see this.”

She knelt down before Cristiano and took his necklace in her hand. She already knew what she was going to see.

Around his neck hung a Zorro rhodochrosite.

52

Ainsley held the cabochon in her
hand, her eyes staring through it. She listened to her heartbeat quickening. She was mere inches from Cristiano’s face. She could smell his clothing, his musky animal scent. He kept his eyes down.

She stayed there for what felt like minutes. She was obsessed with a single thought that kept pinging around her brain.

Marcelo seemed to read her mind. “It was a shock for me too,” he said, “when I learned about Ovidio.”

“Somebody lied to both of them.”

Marcelo nodded. “And there are more too.”

“How many?” Ainsley said. Her voice was a raggedy whisper.

“Fourteen, so far.”

Fourteen. So it was a system of lies. Ainsley stuffed the necklace back into the gaucho’s shirt. Then she stood up. “Who have you told?”

“Nobody,” said Marcelo.

“Not one person?”

“You are the first.”

“And you don’t know who that mysterious buyer was?”

“I have no idea. But today I realize that he must’ve been part of the junta.”

Outside the cabin, somebody whistled, piercing the alpine solitude. Marcelo cocked an ear. It sounded like one of the other
gauchos
.

Marcelo stepped outside. Ainsley followed him. She didn’t want to be alone in a remote cabin with a bearded mute sharpening a knife.

One of the other
gauchos
was outside, astride his horse. The animal was short-legged but powerful, its coat a glossy chestnut.

“What is it?” said Marcelo.

The
gaucho
was looking back anxiously at something.

“The Englishman is here,” he said. “He wants to speak to you.”

“Now?”

“He says it’s important.”

Marcelo seemed confused. “This is very strange. I didn’t think he was driving up today.” He turned to Ainsley. “Do you want to walk with me?”

“Absolutely,” Ainsley said. She was glued to his side. She could feel the
gauchos
looking at her as though she were a side of roast beef. That’s what years without women can do. She wasn’t going to be the one to break their dry spells either.

She and the rancher trekked back over the lip, descended the gentle slope of the grassy bowl back to Lago de Miel. Then they followed the shore of the lake back to the Toyota.

As they drew closer, Ainsley could see that the Englishman’s Toyota was parked next to theirs. The Englishman himself was wandering around the grass, bandy-legged, his purple patched pants and ridiculous bowler hat looking even more out of place in this windswept alpine valley.

“What’s happening,
loco
?” said Marcelo.

“I have news, news, news,” said the Englishman. His hands were nervously picking at stray threads on his pants.

“Tell me.”

“I did something bad.”

Marcelo rolled his eyes. “You went inside. I
knew
it.”

“But I love your sofa.”

“Build your own sofa!” said Marcelo. “That’s
my
sofa. You really drove up here to tell me
that
?”

“Your phone was ringing,” the Englishman said.

“And?”

“I answered your phone.”

“That’s
my
phone,” said Marcelo. “Do you know the difference between
mine
and
yours
?”

The Englishman pulled the bird out off his pocket and began stroking it furiously with his thumb. Ainsley sensed just how much of a lunatic he really was.

Marcelo summoned all of his patience. “Okay, my friend,” he said, “someone was on the phone.”

“Yes,” said the lunatic.

“Who was it?”

“A man.”

“Which man?”

“The man who runs the tavern.”

Ainsley’s heart skipped a beat. She’d just spent the morning drinking
mate
and getting tourist recommendations from him.

“What did the tavern owner say?”

“He wanted to know if the American was still with you.”

“She is.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun, the lunatic shepherd peered up at Ainsley. His squinty eyes creased his craggy face.

“Hello, American,” he said.

“Hello,” she replied.

Marcelo was losing patience. “Why did the tavern owner want to know about the American?”

The Englishman’s nose twitched. “He said that there were some men asking about her.” He grew serious. “They were
milicos
.”

Ainsley felt her stomach drop to her shoes again. It had been doing that a lot today.

So the military had found her. Maybe through immigration. Maybe through the bus company. Maybe through Marcelo. She would never know how, and it didn’t matter anyways. They had caught up with her.

“They were
milicos
. What did the tavern owner tell them?”

“That you had picked her up.”

Marcelo’s face turned white. Ainsley put a hand on his arm.

“Is there anything else the tavern owner told you?” said Marcelo. His voice was resolutely monotone.

The Englishman’s thumb stopped stroking the bird. The insanity disappeared and his eyes seemed clear, intelligent, and very sad.

“They are coming up the road,” he said, “to find both of you.”

53

Ainsley felt hot flashes of panic
in her innards. She felt regret for everything. What was she doing back in Argentina? Why had she been stupid enough to return? She’d been selfish, pursuing her own desires.

Then she had an epiphany. She was like a poisonous invasive species. Anybody who touched her was going to get chased, pursued, disappeared. The government had even tried to eliminate the poisonous invader by inoculating her, then shipping her out.

Marcelo had softened. “You drove all this way to tell me that.”

The Englishman’s thumb was stroking the bird again. He had lapsed back into incoherence. There would be nothing more from him.

“I don’t know how they found me,” Ainsley said. “I was really careful.”

“I had a feeling that from the moment I took your call that this would happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think they’ve been watching me for a long time. Ever since Ovidio became famous, when people began to talk about his necklace.”

“Then we’re both bad news,” she said.

Marcelo’s face grew ashen. He nodded. “The
milicos
don’t drive up into the mountains just to chat.”

He was right. Ainsley had already become acquainted with their tactics.

They both tunred to face the Lago de Miel. For the first time, Ainsley could feel the frigidity of its waters on her face.

Marcelo was pondering the distant peaks beyond. “So maybe the bad news should leave for a while,” he said.

“Where to?”

He pointed to the mountains. “There.” He chewed on his lip. “In the worst-case scenario, they will be here in an hour. We need to leave immediately.”

“But how?”

Marcelo whistled to the
gauchos
. All three came galloping over, the first two on separate horses, and Cristiano on a third.

Marcelo addressed his three employees. “This is an emergency. We need to disappear into the mountains.”

“Have a good time,” said one.

“Don’t take my
matambre,”
said the other.

Marcelo drew a finger across his throat. “No,
all
of us must leave.”

Suddenly the
gauchos
realized that he was serious. The smiles and ribald jokes were suddenly gone, replaced by silence and alarmed eyes.

“The American and I will take one horse. You two will double up. Cristiano keeps the third.”

The two
gauchos
looked at each other. Then one dismounted and handed the reins to Marcelo.

“It’s better for all of us to split up,” he continued. “Whatever happens, do not return for at least two days.”

“But the cattle,” said one.

“Not important,” said Marcelo. “We’ll find them later. Now, we leave. Any questions?”

The three men stared at him in silence.

Marcelo clapped his hands. “Then go.”

The
gaucho
helped the other onto his horse. Cristiano had already wheeled around and was cantering across the field.

“What about him?” said Ainsley. She was pointing at the Englishman. He was on his hands and knees, sniffing in the grass.

Marcelo sighed. “I don’t know. We can’t take three.”

“But you can’t leave him here.”

“I know.” Marcelo walked over to the Englishman. “
Loco
, you have to hide.” The rancher tapped him on the back. “Get in your car and drive over there, in the rocks. Hide yourself.”

The Englishman twitched his nose. “Have I told you about my father?”

Marcelo was running out of patience. He lifted the Englishman by the armpits, got his feet beneath him, then pushed him along back towards the field of schist. “Go back into those rocks and hide your car.”

But the lunatic just stood there, petting his little bird.

Cursing under his breath, Marcelo handed Ainsley the horse’s reins. “Wait here.”

The rancher grabbed the Englishman by the arm and propelled him across the grass towards the Englishman’s Toyota. They got into the vehicle, started the engine, and disappeared back into the field of rocks.

Ainsley stood there, holding the horse dumbly, listening to the wind whistling through the grass around her. This was all happening too quickly. She was having trouble processing it.

Ten minutes later, Marcelo reappeared on foot. “I just hope he stays there.”

“Why?”

“That asshole keeps saying that he’s a sheep, and he needs grass.” He rolled his eyes. “I told you, it’s a miracle that he’s survived this long.”

“Does he have any family?”

“None.”

“What about your car?”

Marcelo looked pensive. “Just leave it. We’ve wasted enough time already.” He managed a half-smile. “So are you ready to share a horse with me?”

“Where are we going?”

“I know someone. It’s about three hours’ ride away.” The rancher gauged the sun. “We have just enough light left, if we leave now.”

Marcelo hoisted himself easily onto the horse. He was still athletic, especially for a sixtyish man. Then he leaned over and offered his hand. “Up here,
señorita
.”

Ainsley swung her purse as far onto her back as possible. Then she took his hand, stuck her shoe into the stirrup, and pushed herself up.

A moment later, she found herself clinging to Marcelo, astride the steed’s broad back.

“This is my best horse,” he said.

“What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one. We don’t do that here.”

Marcelo turned the horse around, kicked it in the flank. They took off, galloping across the grass. Ainsley saw the old rancher lift his hand towards his herd as they galloped out of the bowl—

—and further into the Andes.