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MAN ALIVE ON THE CRUST OF A SLEEPING EARTH
At seven in the morning, the streets smell like fresh bread. Just before
that, they smell like yeast. After seven forty five, they smell stale.
I leave the house at six forty, when all I can smell is the sea. By the
time I get to the village, to buy bread, it is around seven. I am done
by seven ten, and back home by seven thirty. I do it every day, I did it
yesterday, though yesterday was different, and today is different, and
I know the rest of my life will be different from now on, due to what happened
yesterday.
When I say the rest of my life, I mean one, maybe two years. How longer
can a man live when he looks as old as a man can get? When there is no
more room for wrinkles in his hairless body, the eyes cannot sink any deeper,
and the limbs cannot move any slower. When he has outlived every tree in
his backyard, survived a couple of great wars, seen countless transformations,
and his youth is written in history books. How far is a man from his grave
when the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet are covered with
thick leather, and his testicles hang so low he needs to be careful when
crossing the train tracks? When his voice is so raspy every word sounds
like it is moving through straw, and his vision is so bad squares look
like circles. When his breath smells like a zoo, his bones are no stronger
than fish bones, and his heartbeat is as faint as his memory.
All these years I had no ambition other than being a poet. And a poet I
am, not because of the ten thousand pages I wrote, they may be worthless,
but because poetry happens to me everyday.
And so it happened that I lifted this old body out of bed, left the
house at six forty sharp like I always do, and outside my door there was
a basket. And inside the basket there was a baby. A baby in a basket just
like in the stories, just like in the Bible. No note, no letter. I picked
up the skinny little thing. It weighed nothing. It weighed even less than
the loaf of bread I take home every day. I did not know what to do. I could
not leave the baby there, but I also had to get myself some nourishment.
Being a man that lives on bread alone, I headed to the village with the
baby in my arms, some coins rattling in my pocket, and a few minutes behind
schedule.
All the fishermen are gone at this time in the morning, except the ones
who got drunk in the taverns last night, and are still sleeping. As you
pass the low, lace-covered windows of their houses, you can hear music
from the radio, mixed with the voices of wives complaining, and dogs barking.
Although there is conflict going on, these sounds are as innocent, and
as much a part of the morning, as the sounds of birds and metal doors going
up as the stores open for business. Usually, I go straight to the bakery,
but yesterday I just kept going. Without thinking about it, I let my feet
take me further than any other morning, up to the beach, where I sat on
a rock facing the ocean. I figured the baby could not be older than a few
weeks, and had not seen much of this world, let alone the greatness of
the sea. He was sleeping, so I waited until the small eyes opened and took
in all the blue water in front of them, and maybe even a seagull or two.
On the way to the bakery, people I knew crossed my way and looked at me
strangely. They had never seen me walking around accompanied by someone
else, not even a dog. Poetry has been a jealous wife. A beautiful woman
smiled at me for the first time. Workers on bicycles, usually impatient,
made way for us. Even the priest, who was standing by the church door talking
to the mailman, became quiet and nodded at me with respect.
"What a cute little thing!" the baker's wife said, as we entered the store.
"Who's he? Or is it a she?"
"Good question," I said. "I donít know myself." So we pushed aside
a tray of muffins and scones, and a pile of loaves of bread all wrapped
in white paper, and lied the baby on his back in the center of the glass
counter. She scared away two flies going in circles over the childís
head, and removed his diapers as carefully as someone who is unwrapping
a fragile and precious gift. And we found out it was a boy.
"How come you didn't know?" she asked suspiciously. "You steal this baby
or something like that?"
I told her what had happened. She called her husband, who came out from
the back of the store with his hands, arms, and face white with flour.
"What's going on?" he said.
"Look what he found on his doorstep," she said.
He approached the little body on the counter, holding his glasses as if
he were inspecting a new batch of doughnuts.
"Mm . . . a baby," he said.
After spending the next half-hour speculating who the baby might belong
to, trying to figure out what kind of heartless person would do such a
thing, the baker concluded:
"This is a small town. We know every living soul here. I'd bet anything
this is the job of a prostitute."
"We'll never find out," his wife said.
"You never know," the baker said. "Remorse is an unbearable pain . . ."
With that, they ended the conversation and went back to their business.
I bought my bread and a bottle of milk, and left the store. I always go
back home, but it felt like a special day, so I decided to eat my bread
outside, on the square. I chose the long way because it is lined with trees
and, besides, it is much flatter and easier on my lungs.
I had forgotten how soothing it was to walk under the shade of giant trees.
I had forgotten the sound of my steps crushing seeds, and how gently the
breeze turned the leaves of the trees, exposing their silver side. Also,
I had forgotten how short the long way really was.
I sat on a bench next to a poor man who was sleeping. I held the baby on
my lap and passed the loaf of bread under his tiny nose, so he could smell
the best you can smell in the morning of your life. Then I gave him some
milk, made him burp, washed his diapers in the fountain, and hung them
on the bushes to dry in the sun.
The beggar opened one of his red eyes and looked at me. I had seen him
many times before and even talked to him, but did not know his name. Some
of the villagers said that he became crazy after his house caught fire,
killing his wife and two children. Others said it was a bus accident, not
a fire, what killed his family. As far as I know, he has always lived like
that: sleeping on benches, sweeping the sidewalks and squares over and
over with an old broom, his only possession; sweeping away even when there
is not a speck of dust left to sweep.
"I didn't know you had a kid," he said, his head resting on his hand, still
only one eye looking at me.
"It's not mine," I said. "I don't know whose child this is."
"So it fell from the clouds right into your arms!" he said and laughed
loudly, scaring away the pigeons that had gathered around my breadcrumbs.
"I found him outside my door," I said.
"Your door? I bet you're wondering why they chose you."
"You think they chose me?"
"Sure they did. Do you know how many doors there are in this town?"
I had not thought about that. However, the more I did, the less it mattered.
"It's your lucky break," he said, opening the other eye. "A child's worth
a lot of money these days. Some rich people will give away their entire
fortune for a single child."
I put the diapers back on the baby and wrapped what was left of my bread.
He continued, louder and louder, until he was screaming. "That's all they're
worth! Money! So when you lose your child, and everyone loses their children
one way or another, all you lose is money! And anyone can live without
money! I can! I do! The only thing you really need is a clean path to walk
on! I have my broom! My path is clean!"
I could not make sense of his words anymore, so I went away and he kept
screaming as if I had never left.
That was the time of the day when I took my nap. My body was feeling the
need for rest but, for some strange reason, only two blocks away from my
house, my feet changed their mind and turned into Canal Street, taking
me straight to the port, and into the yard where the fishermen keep their
nets.
I remembered how much I used to admire the wonderful colors of these fishnets.
I had written exactly forty-eight poems about them. When new, they all
started out the same way, a dull and dark brown. But after months of being
kissed by the sun, the salty water, the algae and the ink of the squid;
rubbed by the sand, the rocks and the colorful hulls of the boats, each
one acquired unique patterns and hues that ranged from the shallowest shades
of green to the gravest purples. When layered, one on top of the other,
they became one huge organic mass, as lively and mysterious as sea life
itself.
Even when the men are at work, there are always piles of nets left behind,
waiting to be mended, and that is where I chose to rest. I nestled the
baby on top of the softest mound, and found myself a good spot. We both
slept very sweetly until late in the afternoon, when the boats return from
the sea.
Once the boats are docked, the men bring out big trays overflowing with
live red shrimp, shiny clams and mussels, crabs, squid, stingrays, and
all kinds of silver fish. They parade their catch all the way to the auction
hall, a daily spectacle of strange colors and powerful smells, calling
the attention of everybody, even the people who have lived in the village
all their lives.
I held the baby up in the air so he could see the curious shapes of the
fish and shellfish, the slow dance of the lobsters, and the arms of the
octopus waving to the crowds. I hadnít seen it myself for many years;
it made my heart beat like crazy, and even my constant tiredness slipped
off my body for a while, like an old coat that didnít fit anymore.
I fed the baby some more milk, and ate the rest of the bread.
When the streets emptied, one could see a trail of sea water and fish
blood along the path of the parade; a memory of the battle. While looking
at the wet floor, I saw a reflection of the sun going down and the moon
rising. I turned the babyís head to the sky and moved it gently
from side to side, so he could see the star and the satellite, the ruler
of life and the ruler of dreams, the one we gravitate around endlessly
and the one that revolves around us without a purpose.
And when great clouds of swallows pulled the blanket of darkness over our
heads, I realized that I had spent the whole day outside for the first
time in, maybe, thirty years. I had eaten and slept outside, I had watched
the movement of the people and the ocean, I had seen the boats bring back
tired men and creatures from the sea. But the arrival of the evening also
made me think that, having so little time to live, I should not let the
baby grow accustomed to me. So I decided I must try to find his mother
and, remembering the baker's words, I headed to the darkest part of town.
The first woman I encountered was walking up and down a narrow street,
along the same old colorless houses I remembered from my youth. I had spent
many of my nights there. She would stop every now and then, and drink beer
from a bottle. I waited for her to come my way.
"I'm looking for the mother of this child," I said.
She measured me for a long time.
"Are you the father?" she asked, and laughed.
"Someone left him outside my door."
She finished all her beer before talking again.
"And why did you come here?"
"I thought ? "
"You thought only the weak heart of a whore could abandon her own child."
"I'm sorry."
"This is a job, mister. But not the kind of job that can take away your
soul, if you have one."
And she turned around in a definitive way, her back as steep and solid
as a wall of stone. I should have taken her words as the voice of all women,
but desperation kept me wandering about, talking to others, and each response
made me feel weaker. I was not welcome in that place. Not anymore.
I was about to give up my search and go back home, when a woman standing
outside a bar stopped me and said:
"Come to my place."
"No thanks," I whispered. "That's not what I'm here for," and I pointed
to the baby, who was now asleep. "'I'm just looking for his mother."
"I know," she said. "Come to my place."
So I followed her down the street to a low building, and up the narrow
concrete stairs that led to a hallway with six doors. She unlocked one
of them, and we walked inside. It was a small apartment, modestly furnished
with a bed and a bed stand, a kitchen table, two chairs, and a closet.
We sat down at the table, and she poured a strong and dark brandy into
two shot glasses.
"How did you know?" I asked.
"News get around pretty fast in this neighborhood."
She was young, but had the voice and the eyes of an older woman. Her strong
beauty managed to come through a heavy mask of sorrow, and her extravagant
clothes looked like they did not belong to her, or to the moment. She released
a clamp that was keeping her long hair tied in the back, and let it fall
over her shoulders.
I took a sip of my brandy. It was bitter.
"Do you know who the mother is?" I said.
Tears came out of her eyes. She took off her blouse and I saw that her
nipples were dripping milk.
The baby immediately woke up, looked in her direction and started crying.
She took him in her arms, and his mouth found its way to her breast without
any help.
"He was a fisherman," she said. "He used to dive and bring me back beautiful
shells and other treasures from the bottom of the sea. Once he brought
me a pearl. He had a wife and a daughter. He had other women, too. Sometimes
he'd spend the night out drinking with his friends, and then come here
just before the sun came out. He was so drunk, all he could do was lie
next to me. That's all he wanted. I didn't mind. But, other times, he had
so much love and fire inside him, he'd hurt me. Then he'd leave and it
hurt even more. He always paid me and I always took his money. Sometimes
he wouldn't show up for weeks. I wanted to know where he'd been, it was
burning me inside, but I never asked. Women like me have no right to be
jealous. Once I was in trouble and needed money desperately. He went to
the bathroom and closed the door. I heard him growling like an animal and
knocking himself against the walls like he was fighting an invisible enemy.
When he came out, he had a gold tooth between his fingers. 'Sell it,' he
said. Then he dropped it on the bed stand and left so I wouldn't see his
pain. I never sold that tooth. I kept it in a little box with the pearl.
When my belly began to swell, he asked me if I knew who the father was.
I said I knew it was he. He asked how could a whore who sleeps with ten
different men every night be so sure. I said I knew, there was no mistake
about it. I had planned it. I wanted to have his child. He looked scared
after I told him that. His eyes opened wide and went somewhere else. His
lips became so dry and tight; it looked like they'd never open again. And
they didn't. Not for me, anyway. He stood up and left. He never came back.
I went looking for him after a while. He'd never told me his name, but
I described him to the other fishermen as best as I could. Down to the
dark tone of his skin, the fingers stained with tobacco, the smell of alcohol
in his breath, the missing gold tooth. I wanted to find him, if only to
tell him that I'd lied. That it wasn't his child after all. But the fishermen
told me that he went out to the sea one morning and never returned. That
they'd looked for his boat and his body everywhere and found nothing. It
happens quite often, they told me. The sea is both the fierce killer and
the peaceful graveyard, they said. I asked for directions to his house
and, as soon as the baby was born, I took him there. His wife was a simple
and quiet woman. I told her everything. I told her that I though that was
her missing husband's son. She held the baby and told me not to worry,
she'd take care of him like her own son. She spoke without emotion, as
if raising the child was no more than her destiny and her obligation. At
that moment, I failed to notice her real feelings. Feelings of hate and
revenge. I was fooled into thinking that she took life as it came, without
questions or rebellion. And that she would respect her husband's memory
in spite of his unfaithfulness. God knows, her first thoughts might have
been to murder this child. And though she had enough compassion to spare
his life and leave him at your door, it wasn't enough to make her love
him. I would have never left this child in her hands, had I known that
she wasn't capable of giving him a better life than myself."
She was quiet after that. She moved the baby to her other breast. I finished
my drink and asked her a last question.
"Is it his son?"
"It could be," she said. "I'm not sure. But it really doesn't matter now."
It was very late when I left her apartment. But my feet tricked me again,
and instead of taking me home to my bed, they decided on a different direction
and I ended up at the beach.
I took my shoes off and walked up to the sea. The moon had disappeared,
and the darkness had merged the sky and the water into one seamless backdrop.
All you could see was the white foam floating, coming and going with the
tide. And, of course, you could hear the voice of the sea, each wave the
verse of a glorious poem.
I turned around and looked at my village, the little world where I was
born. It was dark and asleep. Behind me, another world. The gate to life
and death, where nourishment came from and fishermen were buried. Two worlds
feeding from each other.
I realized that my hands were free, and that my arms were carrying no weight
for the first time in the day. So I began waving my arms up and down, and
behind my back, feeling the freedom and the warm air of the night passing
all around them. I gave them more power and now they were making full circles,
like two windmills. My feet caught up with the rhythm inside me, and they
were making me jump up and down, from one side to the other. Free of all
its weight, my body was spinning, as light as the sea foam, like a magnet
suspended between the two great powers, the sea and the village, the dead
and the living.
I was dancing, and I would keep on dancing, as long as the waves kept reading
their poetry to me.
And when the sea opened up to give birth to the sun, the light of the giant
star discovered more than the crust of a sleeping earth.
It discovered an old man still alive.
Laughing like a child.
Dancing on the beach.
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing
from the copyright owner
copyright © 2001 by Laurence Klinger
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