his retirement she’d gotten permission from the university to install a kiosk, a sort of wood shack crammed with legal books, in the courtyard outside the law school. A light bulb went off and I brought the horse straight into Troy was her recurrent, self-satisfied metaphor. Yusef, her father-in-law, had helped her buy the bookstore. Though he never said anything to anyone, he believed the responsibilities that his son, in his point of view (which was nothing like La India’s), did not appear capable of managing, should be for him to take on. His two daughters, who both lived in town (the youngest had already married, but the eldest, who never would, still lived at home), tried, solicitously, to console him. But it was pointless: the boy would be the scourge of his old age, and though he outlived him by several years, the ceaseless brooding over his son’s incomprehensible life and death was what drove him to the grave. His grandchildren adored him.
He’d arrived from Damascus in the late 1920s, to work for one of his uncles in the fields outside Rosario, on the banks of the Carcarañá river. He hadn’t yet turned sixteen. One day, a few months after he’d arrived, his uncle called him to the back of the courtyard, and, lowering his voice and looking around to make sure they were alone, took a knucklebone from his pocket and explained that there was going to be a game that night and that he was going to throw the knucklebone into the back of the courtyard, in the dark, and that he was going to tell him to go get it, and all he had to do was switch the knucklebones and instead of bringing back the one he’d thrown, bring back the one he was showing him, the one he’d just taken from his pocket. But Yusef, despite sincerely loving his uncle and owing him everything, had said no. It wasn’t that he was scared, he said, and though he would have loved to please him, it just wasn’t something he could do. His uncle seemed to understand his reasons and told him not to worry about it. Something must have happened with the knucklebones that night, Yusef realized, because his uncle was shot eleven times. He didn’t die—he lived to be ninety-three with two bullets in his body that they were never able to remove, and died suddenly during a game of tute—but out of caution he left town and moved to Rosario, the mafia capital at the time. The impulsive criollos who drew their knives at whatever pretext or started shooting over a simple knucklebone switch-out did not correspond with what is commonly known as the proverbial discretion of the Sicilian brotherhood.
Look at any family, Nula would often think, observing them specifically as a material phenomenon, and you’ll see that they’re just fodder for the Becoming—that everything is constantly moving and changing. And, more or less, the thought would proceed like this: Any member of a family is first of all a shapeless substance, and his existence is only probable and random, and later, when he moves away from the virtual, purely statistical stage, he becomes an embryo, and a fetus, and then he’s born. Once outside he becomes a baby, then an adolescent, an adult, an old man, a corpse, and then just matter again. The skeleton lasts the longest but after a certain period of time, as it fossilizes, it transforms. At this point, all that’s left are a few petrified fragments, for which only the designs of the material world remain. In a family, meanwhile, the different ages are always represented; there are always embryos, fetuses, babies, adolescents, adults, and so on. And if it doesn’t seem that way, if all that’s left are adults and the elderly, it’s because, in this case, only a fragment of the process is available for direct observation. Everything contained there appears and disappears, evolves and changes with time. Not for one second do the members of a family cease to enter and exit the world, transforming, changing in appearance, in size, in weight, the length of their hair or their nails, growing and contracting again, being born, and, each in his own decisive way, leaving the world and disintegrating once again. Everything, at every moment, is in motion, but it’s impossible to know the speed at which things happen. Clocks only follow other clocks; what they measure has nothing to do with time. What is happening passes through a mental scheme they call reality, which is impossible to place either inside or outside of any person. One day, Nula said something to Riera that, in short, would be more or less the following: All of existence is like the ship of Theseus, which, according to Plutarch, was conserved by the Athenians for many centuries as a kind of relic because it had transported the young hostages that the hero had saved from sacrifice in Crete. But over time, as it decayed, they would remove the planks that were too old and replace them with new ones, eventually in its entirety. These repairs were made many times. This is why, when the Athenian philosophers debated the concept of growth, the ship of Theseus was a contested example: some argued that it was still the same ship and others that it no longer was. To which Riera, dismissively, as he often did when the topic didn’t interest him, responded Jerk-offs! But Nula wasn’t even paying attention: he was remembering how, during medical school, he would see the dissected bodies, their organs exposed, listening to his anatomy professor lecture, and wouldn’t be thinking of organs or their function, but of more abstract things, like, for example, the fact that even if two bodies of the same sex had the same organs, each one was still unique, and that what really interested him wasn’t the function or the specific pathology of those organs, but rather the relationship between the general and the particular. So it made sense for him to abandon medicine for philosophy. Since then, in public, one of his provocative claims—like all young people, he had a considerable arsenal—was, I’m only interested in the world in general. And when he was in a good mood, or at a party, feeling playful with someone who could hold his own, as they say, blatantly feigning modesty, would announce: Practicing the ontology of becoming is so simple: you just have to be aware of every part of everything and all the parts of the parts in all their synchronic and diachronic states. And so on.
As kids, Nula and his brother would always spend their holidays in the village. They each had their own horse, just like their cousins, who their grandfather—maybe because they’d been born a bit later and didn’t have his surname but rather the Italian one of his son-in-law, or maybe because Chade and Nula were a connection to the son he’d lost long before death, decisively, snatched him away—nonetheless seemed to love a little less. Or maybe because the two brothers who came from the city tended to imagine it this way, hoping, ever since they could remember, to make it true, from the time when that sense of shelter, consisting simultaneously of affection and severity, met the recollection of their first sensations of the plains. Tactile sensations, for example: the hot and quivering contact with the body of a sweaty horse; the sudden coolness on summer afternoons when they stepped into a shady corner of the immense courtyard; the slippery tension of a live frog struggling to jump from the hand that gripped it; the warm water in the pond and the contact with the obscure objects—animals or plants, it was unclear—that brushed up against them under the surface; their bare feet sinking into the dust on the street, when, on hot nights, they’d walk back from a dance with their shoes in their hands; the sudden burning on their calves at the moment when, crossing a field, they got tangled up in a cluster of nettles; the velvety skins of unripe peaches or the sticky feeling from the sap of the fig trees. Or olfactory: the smell of the bitterwood, honeysuckle, and privet in bloom; of the outhouse at the back of the courtyard; of the alfalfa and the corrals; of the fires, woody at first and eventually combined with the meat cooking on the grill; of a kind of edible sawdust called zatar that arrived every so often from Damascus and was eaten little by little, making a small pile on a slice of bread and drizzling it with olive oil; of some chemical substance they couldn’t pinpoint and of wet burlap in the village ice house; of the abandoned nests, a mixture of dry twigs, feathers, and excrement. Or taste: the flavor of a drink made with very acidic green grapes, mashed at the bottom of a jar and mixed with sugar, water, and ice; of the cigarettes made of dried corn husks and corn silk and later the real cigarettes and the first beers taken secretly from the store during the siesta and which they took to smoke and drink in a vacant lot behind the house; of the green, sweet stems they’d pull from the ground near the station and chew for a long time; of the rainwater that aunt Laila kept in a jar to wash her hair; of the mandarins and oranges that on winter nights they’d put to warm on the coals of the fire; of the Syrian food, mint, squash, lemon, eggplant, wheat germ with raw steak and onion, and, in the summer, stuffed with ice flakes; of the mate brewed with milk and sugar for breakfast. Aural: the black space of the night that would erupt into a multiplicity of planes when, for some reason, the dogs in the village started calling and responding in the darkness; the whistles of the trains that passed full speed through the village, or the clattering of the endless freight trains that, also