The Wind That Lays Waste. Selva Almada

lots of evangelists around here.’

      ‘Yes, there are many Protestant churches in the area. Ours has grown considerably over the last few years, thanks be to God. Pastor Zack has done wonderful work.’

      They sat there in silence. Brauer finished his wine and swirled the last little pieces of ice around in the bottom of the glass.

      ‘Even if he doesn’t believe, your friend, the one you were talking about, he too can enter the Kingdom of Heaven. We all can,’ said the Reverend.

      ‘What’s it like?’ asked Tapioca, avoiding the Reverend’s eye.

      ‘The Kingdom of Heaven?’

      ‘Come here, I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb,’ said Leni, butting in. They all looked at her: she’d hardly said a word since getting out of the car. ‘And he carried me away in the Spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me the holy city, Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, having the glory of God. Her brilliance was like a very costly stone, as a stone of crystal-clear jasper. It had a great and high wall. The material of the wall was jasper; and the city was pure gold. The foundation stones of the city wall were adorned with every kind of precious stone. The street of the city was pure gold, like transparent glass. Then the angel showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal, coming from the throne of God and of the Lamb, in the middle of its street. On either side of the river were the trees of life, yielding their fruit every month; and the leaves of the trees were for the healing of the nations.’ She smiled. ‘That’s how it goes, isn’t it, Father?’

      ‘Is that all true?’ asked Tapioca, astonished by the description.

      ‘Of course not. It’s metaphorical,’ Leni replied with a sneer.

      ‘Elena,’ said the Reverend severely. ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is the most beautiful place you can imagine, son. Standing in the grace of God. All the treasures in the world put together couldn’t compare with that. Are you a believer, Mr Brauer?’

      The Gringo poured himself some more wine and lit another cigarette.

      ‘I don’t have time for that stuff.’

      The Reverend smiled and held his gaze.

      ‘Well, I don’t have time for anything else.’

      ‘To each his own,’ said Brauer, getting up. ‘Clear the table, kid.’ Tapioca was sitting there lost in thought, rolling little pellets of bread and arranging them in a row.

      The boy had arrived with his mother, one afternoon. He would have been about eight. They came in a truck that had picked them up in Sáenz Peña. The driver, who was heading to Rosario, filled up with petrol, checked the tyre pressure and ordered a beer. While he was drinking it in the shade of the awning and the boy was playing with the dogs, the woman came over to Brauer, who was cleaning the spark plugs of a car that he had to repair. When he saw her approaching, he thought she must be looking for the washroom; he had barely noticed her until then.

      But it wasn’t the washroom she was after, it was something else.

      ‘I want to talk with you.’

      Brauer glanced at her and went on with his work. She was hesitating; he thought she must be a prostitute. It wasn’t unusual for long-haul truckers to take them from one place to another, and wait around while they turned a trick. Maybe they split the money after.

      She was hesitating, so the Gringo said:

      ‘I’m listening.’

      ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

      Brauer looked at her more carefully. No, he didn’t remember her.

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘We knew each other a long time ago, and not for long. Thing is, that’s your son.’

      The Gringo put the spark plugs in a jar and wiped his hands on a rag. He looked to where she had pointed.

      The boy was holding a branch. He was using it to play tug-of-war with one of the dogs; the others were circling him and jumping, impatient for their turn to play.

      ‘They don’t bite, do they?’ she asked, anxiously.

      ‘No, they don’t bite,’ Brauer replied.

      ‘Thing is, I can’t go on raising him. I’m going to Rosario to look for work; it’s harder with the kid. I still don’t know where I’ll end up. There’s no one I can leave him with.’

      The Gringo finished wiping his hands and tucked the rag into his belt. He lit a cigarette and offered one to the woman.

      ‘I’m Perico’s sister. You worked with him at the Dobronich cotton gin in Machagai, if you remember.’

      ‘Perico. What’s he up to?’

      ‘Haven’t heard from him in years. He went to Santiago, to work, and never came back.’

      The boy was lying on the ground and the dogs were snuffling at his ribs, looking for the stick hidden under his body. He was laughing like crazy.

      ‘He’s a good little kid,’ said the woman.

      ‘How old is he?’

      ‘Almost nine. He does what he’s told and he’s healthy. He’s well brought up.’

      ‘Did he bring clothes?’

      ‘There’s a bag in the truck.’

      ‘All right. Leave him then,’ he said and flicked the cigarette butt away.

      The woman nodded.

      ‘His name is José Emilio, but everyone calls him Tapioca.’

      When the truck pulled away and began to climb slowly toward the road, Tapioca started crying. Standing still, he opened his mouth and let out a howl, and the tears ran down his dirty cheeks, leaving tracks. Brauer bent down to his level.

      ‘Come on, kid, let’s have a Coke and give those dogs something to eat.’

      Tapioca nodded, still watching the truck, which had climbed right up onto the road now, with his mother inside, taking her away forever.

      Brauer picked up the bag and started walking toward the pump. The dogs had run up onto the verge, following the truck; now they were coming back with their tongues hanging out. The boy sniffled, turned around, and ran after the Gringo.

      Tapioca started clearing the table and Leni got up to help him.

      ‘Let me do it,’ she said, taking the knives and forks he was holding, then briskly gathering the plates and glasses. ‘Tell me where I can wash them.’

      ‘Over here.’

      Leni followed him to the back of the little house, where there was a cement basin with a tap. As she washed up, she handed the things to Tapioca. The wet dishes piled up in his arms.

      ‘Do you have a tea towel?’

      ‘Inside.’

      They went into the single room. It took Leni’s eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. Gradually she identified the shapes: a stove with a gas cylinder, a fridge, a small table, a few shelves nailed to the wall, two folding beds, and a wardrobe. The bare cement floor was clean.

      Tapioca put the things on the table and picked up a rag. Leni took it from him and started drying.

      ‘You know where things go; you put them away,’ she said.

      They finished the job in silence. When she had dried the last fork, Leni shook out the rag and hung it over the edge of the table.

      ‘Done,’ she said with a satisfied smile.

      Tapioca wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers, ill at ease.

      Leni hardly ever did housework because she and her father didn’t have a home. Her clothes were sent to the laundry; they ate