Ermiña and I have had some problems. I have to admit: it’s not all happy families on the trout farm.
*
The first problem is Juancho. Let’s just say he’s got the same nose as me (although not quite so prominent), drags his feet when he walks – sign of a bad conscience – and sometimes when I talk to him he just stares at me, unblinking, with those cow eyes of his, like he’s got no idea what I’m saying. This annoys me, because I know he might be slow but he’s not a total imbecile. I could be telling him that one of the fish tanks has got a crack in it or describing the latest Parcelas match, his expression would be exactly the same. I’ve thought about goading him into a fight, ambushing him down some dark track, but he’s bigger and stronger than me and losing to him would be a real blow.
The second problem with Juancho is that he came up here to get away from something. It’s obvious, no matter how tight-lipped he is. We’ve got our routine now: I clean the tanks and take care of feeding and looking after the trout. I also give Ermiña a hand in the vegetable garden next to our hut, where the clearing with the tanks ends and the forest begins. Juancho patrols the plot day and night, doing the necessary repairs and making sure all the pipes are working properly. He likes to take the rifle out with him, the one Don Henrik left us, but he also carries a pistol in his belt. One time I found him in the forest, sitting on the trunk of a fallen oak. He was looking up above the trees where occasionally you’ll catch sight of a quetzal, the pistol in his hand. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him fire a bullet into one of those poor birds. Ermiña told me (God knows how she finds these things out) that some men came by his shack to leave him a message, before he moved up here. They
asked him for money – too much money. They’re relations from down the mountain, Ermiña told me, it’s something to do with inheritance. I think that’s why he wanted to
work with Don Henrik, to get away from that side of the mountain and be closer to the summit, up here where the only access is along a muddy track.
Juancho goes into the forest every day and disappears off towards the spring where the pipes start. He sits there listening to the water bubbling away, or doing who knows what, and then he’ll walk around the edge of the plot until he comes out down below, where the waste water from the tanks drains into the river. I’ve followed him, and let me tell you, that man does not bear his burden lightly. Sometimes, from the tanks, I see his face appear out of the forest and look carefully around him before he emerges. And at night,
when we turn out the lights in our hut, I glance down at the metal shack where he sleeps and see his little candle through the darkness. His stubborn silence has started to scare my daughters, and the truth is it’s getting to me too. I don’t want my family anywhere near a victim of extortion, let alone one that doesn’t pay up when he’s asked.
*
Trout are delicate creatures and can’t handle temperatures over thirteen degrees. That’s why Don Henrik bought his land right at the top of the mountain, because he wanted ice cold spring water. But despite being delicate, they’re completely savage. They eat meat, even their own. Little cannibals, my Ermiña calls them. I remember the first weeks on the trout farm when I’d spend long periods watching them swimming anti-clockwise, all together like a big happy family. One time a trout began to peel off from the group, rising in tighter and tighter circles until it was flapping about near the surface. Its mouth started to gape, and it went belly up, spinning all silvery on its axis. Then something strange happened. Another trout came up to see what was going on, sniffing at its companion, and from one moment to the next the whole tank freaked out. The water was churning, looked like it was boiling, and the surface filled with the metallic flashes of a knife fight. A minute later everything had calmed down. The big family was once again swimming anti-clockwise. There was no sign of the trout that went belly up.
*
I first met Analí when I went down to the village shop one day with José, just after I started work on the trout farm. She placed the bag of cement and the wire on the counter, and, after handing me my change, smiled at my daughter.
So handsome, she said, he looks just like his Dad.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was a girl. And
I know I shouldn’t have cared, but I was pleased with the compliment.
The next day I went down again without José. My heart was thumping as I approached the shop, and I hid behind a tree to check whether Analí was with anyone. She looked beautiful in her little dress behind the counter, smiling at something on her phone.
I went in acting all casual and before long was showing her the funny videos I’d saved: a Velorio skit, that clip of a drunk who won’t let go of his sippy cup, another of a Chinese peasant riding a huge pig like it’s a stallion. Such a pretty laugh, Analí, so quick to make my heart beat faster.
Up here on the trout farm you can hear birds screaming and howler monkeys roaring from the top of the mountain range. My dog Baloo, who guards the farm at night, gets into a scrap with a paca about every three days. He even brought me a coral snake hanging from his muzzle one afternoon.
So we’re not exactly alone, though it definitely feels that way. That’s why I told Ermiña that she and the girls should walk the four kilometres down to the village that weekend, to spend a night with her mum. I’d stay here and look after things with Juancho; if Don Henrik found out I’d taken off, I’d be out of work. As they turned to say goodbye, I melted at the sight of José waving those little hands that one day could be the hands of a great goalie.
I spent a couple of hours tending to the trout, watching the sky turn orange, and when it was almost dark I started heading down myself. Instead of following them to the village, I took the path that skirted the sweetgum plantation, a kilometre from the trout farm. I had to wait half an hour before I spotted the light of
a mobile phone in the darkness. It was Analí on her way up to the place we’d agreed on, and I knew she’d seen me because the light started to approach more
slowly.
Hello, troublemaker. I was about to give up on you.
What, and leave me here all by myself? she asked.
It was so dark all I could see was her phone screen, the silhouette of her hand barely visible.
As if I could I leave you here alone, I replied.
The heat I’d been carrying around inside me made my whole body tingle.
Analí wheezed as she suppressed a laugh, and I suddenly remembered the noises José used to make, years ago, when she had bad lungs. I shook my head to shake away the thought.
Do you have a boyfriend? I asked her.
Analí took her time answering.
Not anymore, she said after a while.
Lucky me then.
She didn’t reply, but I sensed that something had changed in the darkness.
Aren’t I? Lucky? I insisted.
Depends, said Analí, on how you see it.
Well from where I’m standing I can’t see a thing, I told her.
Me neither, actually, she said.
Her
