secretly listening, spying on father and son without any excuse, as if saying: Life has given me so little that I can take whatever I want. Less still could Baltasar believe that father and daughter were united in their siege of someone as insignificant in the eyes of his family and the world as he: a romantic idealist, a physically unattractive fellow, a fool in love with an unattainable woman, an agent of the blindest, most involuntarily comic justice. Might that act of sincerity with his father at least have saved him? He detested himself; therefore he detested the intrusive presence of his sister even more, as he imagined a net of possible complicities and actual indiscretions.
âHe still hasnât asked you?â said Sabina, a candle in her hand.
âAsked me what?â
âWhether you want to be a merchant or a rancher.â
âDonât be a hypocrite. You heard everything.â
âThe poor old man still has his illusions,â Sabina went on, as if not listening to her brother, as if reciting lines in a play. âHe wants you to choose.â
âYou heard everything. Donât go on pretending. You rehearsed this scene as if we were in a theater. Well, the first actâs over. Say something new, please.â
âI told you that I wanted to get out of here, too.â
âBut you canât. The old man needs you. Sacrifice yourself for him and, if you wish, for me as well. Thereâs always one selfish child and one self-sacrificing child. Wait for the old man to die. Then you can get out, too.â
She began to laugh. No, she was not the only sister who could take care of her father, sacrificing herself for him. The old man had dozens of children. What did little innocent Baltasar think? Didnât he know the laws of the country? A patriarch like José Antonio Bustos could have as many children as he wanted with the farm girls, if his legitimate wife wasnât enough, especially if she was as insipid as poor MarÃa Teresa Echegaray, who ended her days as bent as a shepherdâs crook, peering at the ground until she forgot peopleâs faces and died. She was plump and nearsighted. âLike you.â
José Antonio Bustos had a regiment of children scattered over the pampa and the mountains. But country law was implacable: the patriarch could recognize only one son. As for the others, well, this vagabond land would swallow them up.
âYou are the legitimate son, Baltasar,â said Sabina, as if she were illegitimate or as if, having been born, she died every night in the bed to which sheâd been condemned and had no time to be reborn the next day. âBut you look just like Mother. That gaucho you challenged a little while ago looks just like you, didnât you see it? Iâm the one who looks like Papa, not you.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â stammered Baltasar in confusion. âThere must be any number of Papaâs kids who look like you and him.â
He felt he was losing himself in the thing he detested most: self-justification. Even though he detested her, he preferred being as honest with Sabina, who was as dry and dark as their father, as heâd been with his father because he loved him.
âI know you heard everything. Think about it awhile and help me. I love a woman. Iâll never win her unless I do what I must do. Iâm going to join up with Castelli in Upper Peru, sister dear. But only now, talking here with youâand I thank you from the bottom of my heart!âdo I realize that I have to do everything I can to save an innocent child. My friends in Buenos Aires will help me. I want to save that innocent child. Iâll send him here to you so you can take care of him. Will you do me that favor?â
âWhat is all this about an innocent child? Do you want me to stay here, a captive, even after the old man dies? What are you talking about?â
This wasnât
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley