Free Lovers on All Saints' Day by Juan Gabriel Vásquez Page A

that had made someone react too quickly? He was attentive to the rest of the noises. The beaters were covering the second flank of the woods and the dogs barked as if to cut through the cold.
    A fourth shot rang out.
    Georges inhaled deeply, because ever since he was a little boy the smell of gunpowder in his nostrils, in case by chance the wind was blowing in his direction strongly enough after a nearby shot, had fascinated him. He couldn’t smell anything this time. Instead, he was surprised to hear the three horn blasts signaling the end of the hunt.
    Why were they stopping already? Didn’t they still have a good stretch to cover? He didn’t react yet, waiting for confirmation. A hunter shouted from somewhere:
    “Pap, pap, pap.”
    Georges didn’t hide a grimace of disappointment. That was the sign: the hunt had been called off early. What had gone wrong?
    “Pap, pap, pap,” he shouted in turn.
    Swearing, the hunters began to show themselves throughout the forest. They no longer walked calmly as they had earlier in the morning, but hurried like boys; they wanted to get back to the cars as fast as possible and find out which beater had sounded the trumpet three times before having gone all the way through the woods and settle that innocuous blame, and then, finally, carry on to the next place. Georges did the same. He didn’t stop to sniff the air. He wasn’t paying attention to mushrooms or chestnuts fallen among the grass. He didn’t even allow himself the basic curiosity of who had shot what. His gaze was fixed on the line of cars of which his, being the last to arrive, was now the first. He was pleased about that: he’d leave before the rest, avoid hearing the disputes and reproaches. When he was getting to the end (now the beginning) of the convoy, he saw Jean arriving almost at a run, his face disfigured with rage.
    His wife was following him. Five meters or so behind them the group’s novice was walking. His lank reddish hair had fallen across his face and he had recent acne scars on his chin. Georges knew Jean’s words referred to him, not to the others: Respin and Cambronne hadn’t even appeared yet, and the rest of the beaters were too far behind to even hear him.
    “Idiot! He’s an incompetent idiot! We’ve completely wasted the woods, shit. How incompetent can someone be. But by God he won’t be coming out with us again. If it’s up to me, he won’t ever be with us again.”
    “It wasn’t him, dear,” said Catherine. “I was with him, I swear it was someone else.”
    “I had to learn the hard way. But one thing’s for sure, this is the last time a beginner gets his first chance on my hunt.”
    “But it was someone else,” said Catherine.
    “Everyone back to their vehicles,” shouted Jean. Dark looks from one or more of the hunters reminded him that he was speaking to older men who deserved respect. His tone calmed down then; but in his throat remained the suppressed fury of a spoiled little boy.
    “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. Someone brought this station to an end ahead of time, and we’ve missed out on some good opportunities.”
    “Where’s your father?” said Georges.
    “I propose we simply forget this matter and proceed to the next stop.”
    “Jean,” said Georges.
    “Yes sir.” Jean turned impatiently.
    “Where is your father?”
    Jean looked around at all those present. He looked toward the field, looked at the grazing cattle, looked over the barbed wire.
    “Has anyone seen my father?”
    The heads moved from one side to another, like at a tennis match.
    “Where’s he got to?” said Jean, lowering his voice.
    He leaned on one of the posts holding up the barbed wire. A notice stapled onto the wood said: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. HUNTING SEASON. NOVEMBER 1986 .
    “
Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “He’ll catch up. To your cars, gentlemen.”
    “But we can’t leave,” said Georges.
    “Why’s that?”
    “Your father has my car keys. He kept