I
remember it was a hell of a season,
the
Spring of that year.
The
magnolias had bloomed earlier
and
had faded before April was done.
The
riverbanks were extinct
because
of two consecutive floods.
Never
before had it rained like it did then.
My
days of wandering were over
and
I had unpacked my burden
in
a small studio apartment
overlooking
the tumid river.
From
thence I could behold the island
on
which the two bridges meet.
Against
all odds, I had come back home.
Of
course the oracle had yet to be fulfilled:
the
old Indian fortune-teller, with his parchment skin
and
cracked lips the sight of money widened to a grin,
had
augured too many occurrences.
Hindsight
would be acquired years from now.
The
first of his predictions happened a day earlier,
a
day before the full moon. I was hit by a car.
My
sister had cried: “God, leave him alone!”
as
I lay humiliated a second time by Fate;
yet
it turned a blind, unblinking eye and walked out on me,
once
it had ascertained the deed performed and sealed.
I
was misunderstood, forsaken and covered in dust.
Nursing
my wounds like an animal,
my
instinct bound my steps homewards.
Since
then the Shadow has followed me,
and
I have grown accustomed to its presence,
its
outline sketched half an inch off my natural shadow.
I
had come back home and nothing had changed.
I,
the only nomad, was different.
The
people had stayed where the stones lay.
Even
the old man I had known in my youth was still there.
We
had seen him sitting here since we were born.
Our
fathers and forefathers had known him
in
much the same way we came to know him in turn.
That
same old man who rolled the r's
and
who had an incredibly youthful voice.
His
dungarees smelt of papier d'Arménie,
and
were worn out at the groin and knees.
He
always leaned back in his chair against the outer wall
of
the bar because the front legs had been broken
in
a donnybrook a long time ago, so he claimed.
Levitating
and rocking his decrepit, lank body,
watching
the passers-by strut away, he would tut
and
shake his head, either puzzled or embarrassed,
muttering
to himself what sounded like imprecations.
Chewing
on the same liquorice root for days on end,
until
all that was left was a soggy mesh of fibres
at
the perlèched commissures of his mouth.
Chewing,
chewing, chewing,
as
if waiting for God with relish.
Chewing,
chewing, chewing,
grinding
his teeth like an ax.
He
would mumble that it is all about settling scores.
Even-steven.
An eye for an eye. Eye to eye.
To
every and no one in particular,
sitting
in a remote corner of the bar,
leaning
on a four-legged chair.
He
would also say that there are five stages in a man's life:
the
walk, the burden, the desert, the ennui
and wrath.
He
would look down at the bottom of his mucky glass of cheap wine and
answer the question everyone in the bar had forgotten who it was that
asked it: “Cantankerous ye’re all right, choleric you aren't. Are
ye bored out of yer wits, old man?” In all probabilities the
questioner had since been anointed and buried in a hurry.
“The
very minute you start walking, there's no stopping you,” he would
respond. “Have you ever noticed how little kids who can barely walk
like breaking into a staggering run?” He would scrutinise his
thoughts and then add: “Then comes a point when you burden your
shoulders with kin and work. Losing this burden of yours, forever and
ineluctably, leaves you coasting through a nameless desert. Reaching
port means you get to sit down, but all you're left with is ennui,
the terrible, deleterious, gut-gripping ennui.”
He would pause again, solemnly lifting his glass as if in a toast.
“This is by far the longest period in a man's life. Wrath comes
when every word is said and done, when you finally reach the end of
the sitting.”
One
would always ponder on those words watching him wait,
his
back against the outside wall of the bar.
No
one knew his name, all called him ‘Old man’,
for
he was intrinsically this to us.
He
seemed to have no other life than that which was walled against the
bar.
I
remember wondering often where his house was,
if
he had ever owned or needed one.
His
mangy dog who always lay beside him
would
only rose to its feet and trot to the ditch opposite
to
sniff a moribund pigeon or some carcass.
The
old man would get up in turn, walk behind the bar,
and
piss noisily against the back wall.
Both
would be back once they were done,
usually
in unison, both having bad teeth and a bad bladder.
Often
he said that he was hidden and visible.
None
understood the cryptic words.
We
saluted him in awe.
We
stopped our conversations if he spoke.
We
made ample way for him to pass by us,
going
from his amputated chair outside to the one inside.
Allowing
more space than was actually necessary.
This
old man claimed scars acquired after
an
entire season spent in Hell, yet it had not been enough
—
to kill or to subdue
him — he had come back.
He
was perhaps older than the chair,
perhaps
older than God himself, yet subject to both.
We
never spoke of him lest he heard us, lest he detected it.
He
was in our minds, weightless like a shadow.
Once
he said that God was in the palm of his hand.
He
outstretched it, and we looked into it, intent and dreading.
Amidst
the decussations of the lines and the scars
we
distinguished an obscured blotch, like a scab,
and
his sardonic smile and the glint in his eyes
scared
the bravest of us.
For
eyes like his had seen the horror.
Thereupon
he bent down and scooped a handful of dust.
He
showed it to us, his hand held out in front of him.
Then
he let it trickle down from his clenched fist.
Few
of us had the sense to feel fear.
He
would play the funambulist on his chair,
rain
or shine, from winter to winter,
from
before dawn to long after dusk,
long
after the last one of us had headed home.
One
morning, I was running errands. He hailed me.
“Listen,
son, why don’t you come over here
listen
to the ramblings of an old man?”
He
made me squat beside him.
“People
say I’m mad. Half-mad. Half-baked.
Whatever.
People blab and have a worm’s wits.
Truth
is, I’m way better than, say, Hammurabi,
yet
the man was revered and feared.
His
hand was both stern and righteous.
He
knew the Euphrates was treacherous.
He
had right and wrong decided at a man’s stroke,
at
man’s instinct of survival,
at
the hand of discharge and Fate.
Pray,
what is more maddening than this?”
There
was little I could say or add, so he pursued.
“Syntagmas
are set in stone now, but words shift.
Paradigms
shift. Our actions do too.” He paused.
“Curst
be he that makes me move my bones!
I’m
wedged right in the caesura —
I
have the right to be left there alone.
He
riposted — as if in response to something I never said —
that
he would not — ever — demean himself
like
the Cumaean Sibyl had done.
“Look
at her now. She is but a heap of rattling bones
and
rasping breaths,
full
of spite and regrets.
One
feels only pity at what has been one of the grandest Seers of the
ancient world.
I
shall not
become an aporia.”
He
spat a chunk of liquorice fiber on the ground.
The
dog lifted its head, sniffed at it,
then
put its head back on its paws and slumbered
almost
immediately. Its master resumed its monologue.
“Ici
reposent dans l’attente de la résurrection such-and-such —
nonsense!
Even
dust has a shadow, and no one cares as much. We are walking dreams.
I
have seen men hollowed out with a jeweller's loupe,
both
their sentiments and their tendons raked out with an ass's jawbone.
They
now roam the streets without aim. They now dwell in dreamless nights.
They
are us! — and by ‘us’ I never meant me.
Never!
Always remember this, son.”
He
began fidgeting on his chair.
He
seemed to remember something.
“When
the day came to an end, the last of the dawn-breakers was dead.
I
was left alone to carry the torch. So I gave it to them.
You
should have seen the fascination in their sparkling eyes.”
“Serendipity
is like seeing the ground where the shadow of the tree lay.
We
seek clarity in light and darkness whilst the world is shapeless and
ashen.
Let’s
take a walk!” So on we went, his chair askance, the dog fast
asleep.
He
folded his hands behind his slouched back, munching. Yet he was not
walking idly.
“Look
at me! I was once the very heart of the fray. I was the weathervane
and the thaumaturge of the world. I brought kings and emperors to
their knees or to glory, according either to a grand scheme or on a
whim. I put dictators onto gilded thrones. I saved a widow and an
orphan from a certain death. I gave alms and I burnt cities down. I
have spared and slaughtered the innocents, butchered the Centaurs and
abducted Lapith women. I have hewn down the Cedar Forest to build a
raft and a city gate. I singlehandedly diverted the course of the
Euphrates to bury my companion in its riverbed. I defeated Qin with a
single arrow shot with my Holmegård bow a thousand yards distant. I
remember painting cave walls and living in the wild with nought but
animals’ pelts girdling my loins. I have lived unaccounted lives of
men, probably thousands. I have seen civilizations rise and fall. I
have built some, destroyed others. I have never looked back. Now look
where I stand. These exploits today are regarded as hurried snippets
scribbled in the canvas of human history; they are shelved in dusty
bookshops and relegated to equally dusty museums. Bookshops and
museums! Some deem it a memorable place to endure. Time has proven
them wrong. The places to endure are in men’s memory and songs, the
rest is a handful of dust in the wind. Half the things we do don’t
make any sense and are done in a state of stupor. The other half we
spend on debating what we’ll have for dinner or which TV program
we’ll watch. Doesn’t make any more sense. And equally dazed we
are. We’re imbecilic, emotionally retarded fools. Our desires are
tied to the rope of a windlass. Don’t you ever forget what I said.”
Whilst
he was speaking to me, we were crossing the first bridge and walking
down the island. His pace was slow, but not because of old age, but
because he simply was unhurried and determined. In time, we reached
the tip of the island and faced the river downstream. Once in a while
he would pick up some rock, balance it from hand to hand, and put it
in his pockets. Out of the blue, he broke off mid-sentence and said:
“Detrás de yo está la muerte,” jerking his thumb over his
shoulder. I turned my head at once, but didn’t see anything. When I
turned it back, it was pitch-dark and all the city lights were gone.
Night had replaced day in the blink of an eye, as it usually does
when miracles are about to take place. The coal-black mass of the
river dragged sluggishly in every direction and the crescent of the
moon hung high up in the shrouded sky of ash and lit a single pine
tree set in the midst of the current. The reflection of the tree was
no less ominous. I could still see our old man quite clearly. His
silhouette seemed bulkier and more majestic. His eyes glinted with an
inner flare which I deemed blazing with enough rage to combust the
entire universe.
“Turn
your back on everything you once held dear: those people whom you
followed, that which you wore, this place which birthed you. Those
whom you followed now tread paths of their own, and their own only! –
thence you cannot go. Wrath deforms their features before they can
walk, for they want to be left alone. That which you wore is
burdensome. It encumbers your stride and weighs you down. The place
which spawned you casts iron chains on your ankles. Wait for your
Shamhat, and then leave! Leave this abominable place!” He had shot
his index straight under my nose. “Do you hear me, son? You no
longer have business here. One day, even I
will lie down on a couch of sighs, never to rise again. However
fiercely we fight Death — Death snapping off mankind like a reed in
a canebrake! — dragonflies and dead bodies will never stop drifting
down the river.” He picked up one last stone which clinked in his
pocket with the rest of them, and casually stepped in the current. He
was still talking. “You should leave as soon as you can, my lad!
Here is no safe place for someone like you or me. We get attached to
the land and before we know it decades have passed. We have all the
time in the world to remain rooted to one place when we’re buried
under six feet of dirt and as many planks, mark my words!” His
dungarees were splashed, thus revealing their original blue colour.
His voice didn’t falter, nor his step. He was waist-high in the
river, about ten feet from the riverbank. He trudged on. His voice
trailed off. He didn’t look back. Not even once. I could see him
struggling forward with the aid of his arms. Suddenly his thick mane
of grey hair disappeared.
I
was not stunned, nor was I angry. I had been listening and waiting,
now both seemed trivial.
When
I walked in the bar a while later.
the
others asked me jokingly,
poking
each other in the ribs,
if
there was a storm outside,
or
if it was so hot that I had taken a dip in the river.
I
was drenched to the bones.
And
in the chiaroscuro bathing the bar,
directly
in the shaft of light from the open door,
I
could distinctly make out my wet footprints.
I
realised I hadn’t noticed the dog on my way in.
No
one ever saw it again, nor claimed to.
No
one ever touched the tilted chair.
In
due course it rotted into dust and splinters.
It
had been, by all accounts,
a
hell of a season.
