The Dreamer: List 4

Neftalí nodded. “To b-become robust, like Rodolfo. I wish he could come, too. Can’t the hardware store let him have a holiday?”

The middle of the night arrived sooner than Neftalí expected. When Mamadre woke him, he shivered with cold and felt disoriented.

By moonlight, Neftalí saw the flat fields of Labranza, shadowed by the volcano, Mount Llaima. He spotted the silhouette of the ruins of a Spanish fort near Boroa and the high steppes and jagged cliffs of Ranquilco.

Neftalí felt the river breathing beneath him, as if keeping time to the slow and sorrowful tune. His heart filled with the beauty and the peacefulness of it all. He felt as if he were on the brink of something magnificent.

He stood, captivated, feeling small and insignificant, and at the same time as if he belonged to something much grander.

Father stood next to the wagon and patted his chest. “The salt air is invigorating, yes?”

Neftalí rushed to the hem of the sea. “Here, Laurita! The home of a m-mollusk. And a tiny bird skeleton. Just like in the almanac at school.”

Neftalí looked at the expanse of clean, damp sand. He picked up a stick and began writing his name.

“Is your mind so muddled that you cannot hear me when I stand so close? You need to pay attention.”

Every few steps, he looked back at Mamadre, his eyes pleading for a reprieve.

He felt Laurita’s arm, groping for him. Neftalí’s feet found the sand and he jumped up, coughing. He reached for Laurita, pulled her toward him, and lifted her into his arms.

What made Father so cruel? And why did Mamadre do nothing to stop him? Was she just a servant to Father’s whims?

Neftalí wondered if the beachcombers they passed each morning puzzled over their strange parade: a cheerful whistling man followed by a somber boy, a weeping girl, and a dutiful woman who walked behind as if nothing was wrong.

Neftalí wondered if the beachcombers they passed each morning puzzled over their strange parade: a cheerful whistling man followed by a somber boy, a weeping girl, and a dutiful woman who walked behind as if nothing was wrong.

Neftalí’s resentment shadowed him, preventing him from speaking to Mamadre or Father, except to answer their direct questions.

As soon as the torturous swim in the ocean was over, Neftalí strode back to the house, changed from his swimming suit, and set out on his own.

Neftalí held out his hand. “I am Neftalí. I am only a v-visitor. For the summer.”
Augusto grasped Neftalí’s hand in both of his. “It is of no matter. Any time is an auspicious time for books, no?”

“Ah...you are a conscientious reader with a taste for adventure....” Augusto stepped to the wall of books. He pulled out two volumes.

Augusto stood up from his desk where he had been reading and came over to Neftalí. “What is the matter, young man? Do you need help? Why do you look so forlorn?”

The land sloped downward toward a white-slatted cottage covered in honeysuckle and gone to disrepair.

As the sun eased toward the horizon, Neftalí headed back to the summerhouse. In the waning light, he ran, his thoughts beating,

In the rustic kitchen, he quickly stuffed bread into his pockets and scooted out the door, but he came face-to-face with Laurita.

He leaned back and listened to the waterbirds: the screeches of seagulls, the song of the deep-throated cormorant, and the now-familiar chirrup chirrup of the swans.

He laid the swan on the porch, took a bucket from the storage bench, and fetched water from the lagoon. Then, he blotted the gash with the corner of his shirt.

Acting as if nothing unusual had happened, Neftalí and Laurita washed their hands together in the sink. Like a conspirator, Laurita caught Neftalí’s eye and smiled.

Finally, the day came. Neftalí carried the swan toward the lagoon.
Laurita walked beside him, fretting. “Is he safe? Go slow, Neftalí. Careful.”

But even after another week of devoted attention, the swan had made little progress. He seemed to grow weaker and more despondent.

The swan’s silky neck unfurled.

Summer dwindled. Within a few weeks, the yellow sun changed to gold and the shadows lengthened.

“You have not tried hard enough, Neftalí. After the entire summer, it looks as if you have grown more frail instead of stronger.”

Neftalí tugged Laurita forward and stepped into the water. His stomach recoiled, his fear as intense as it had been on the first day of summer.

Beyond the swells, an unlikely regatta appeared before him: his fuzzy sheep bobbing on the water; the Mapuche boy, backstroking and waving; two swans swimming in tandem; Augusto, the happy castaway, floating on a raft of books without a care in the world; and a rowboat filled with radiant poppies.

The next wave crested, Neftalí leaned into it, pulling Laurita with him.

The next wave pushed him down, separated Neftalí’s and Laurita’s hands, and deposited him in a roil of white water. He held his breath and righted himself, feeling a strange buoyancy, as if something beneath had kept him afloat.

Without them there, Neftalí lingered. He found a stick and defiantly wrote giant words in the damp sand.