CHAPTER II: ALL STORIES SHOULD BE TOLD TWICE AT LEAST

   In the serene, sacrosanct, stillness of Deanforest, the doorbell rang as a loud knock, startling Herbert Protch when he was at the top of the grand staircase. Because of its strident and out of tune notes that reminded a bird surprised by a sudden frost and which, terrified, had forgotten the tone suitable for singing; he understood that it was the main gate, which was to the west. The mail and the morning newspapers had already arrived and he didn’t know who might call at those hours. He was not used to receive many visitors. Maybe – he thought - a beggar or a seller of encyclopedias. He would prefer the first thing: he would give him some currency and that person would leave in a couple of minutes. Whoever that was, was leaving the imprint of his personality in the call, because he rang with persistence, but at the same time -he could not explain it better - could be perceived an unmistakable tune of calm, of someone who didn't want to bother but had long time ahead and a clear goal. A little angry, but curious, he attempted to give some urgency to his rheumatic steps. In the absence of his wife, and having decided to give up having servants, it was his turn to open the door. Feet that descended the staircase not only were insecure; they also carried the weight of a body invaded by a profound melancholy, that of a man who cursed his sudden change of fortune as well as an old age that, much to his regret, was starting to devour him. He came down from the second floor, where he had been arranging flowers in his room: the former room of the lord, which only in the last year, and after the persuasive words of his wife, he had dared to occupy. That was - he thought - the word that best described his situation, because so he felt and couldn’t be avoided, as a squat that occupied a house that did not belong to them by their social position. Unconnected threads of thought made him remember he was seriously considering transforming one of the offices on the ground floor in a new bedroom where he had easier access, where his knees did not suffer much punishment. But that constant lassitude, that infinite reluctance to live! By one of the high windows of the house he had just seen with half of consciousness, how the fog dissipated, moving away from the north. It was half past nine in the morning of Monday, February 14 - year 33-, the morning after the night that Regulus had watched. A day that was not called to occupy a prominent place in history, but that within the vast annals of iniquity, there was place for a small justice. Because in a remote biblical country a defense minister was forced to resign, accused of the massacre at the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps.

   The house was just twenty years old. Mount Rushmore was the pompous, and impossible name for Hazington, which had in mind Mr. and Mrs. Woodward, of South Dakota, when it was built; the name for which it was known in the eleven years that it was vacant, because the Woodward never came to inhabit it - Herbert Protch never knew why, and wondered what business brought an American couple to Hazington, but believed to have heard that the lady, once it was finished, didn't want to know anything about it. Uninhabited it followed until one day the young Lord Siddeley, from the powerful Siddeley family, moved to the city and acquired it through his lawyers, without worrying about the price. It is true that it was the most luxurious mansion of Newchapel, but inside it was breathed an air of unhappiness. Perhaps, as he had thought so many times, houses, like humans, needed only to follow the cycles of life and renew, and perhaps it was requiring the accompaniment of voices and children's laughter. He thought so because he had always regretted that he and Maude had not had children. And neither did Mr. Siddeley. It is true that his Lord only lived five years in Deanforest, until one fine day he faded in the air. He couldn't explain it otherwise. And they could not ask questions. It was one of the conditions that they had to accept when they learned that his master had bequeathed them the property. Herbert Protch and his wife had served all their life the Siddeley family; and when his young Lord decided to leave the Siddeley Priory Manor to work at the Thuban Star, they came with him to the city. But they only served him a year in Deanforest, as the old butler withdrew its service to take care of one of his uncles, suddenly sick of gravity, and moved to Orléans, the France of his ancestors. And four years later, the events precipitated.  To the house of Orléans arrived a strange envelope with a citation from a law firm of Hazington for a day in late December. A number of Longborough Street, third floor. An office with comfortable black armchairs. An individual without eyebrows and a sedative and mellifluous voice. A dark and incomprehensible jargon. And the only light that was distinguished in the middle of the hotchpotch of his words was that Mr. Nicholas Martin Siddeley made them owners of Deanforest, Newchapel (Hazington). He had left stipulated that the house would be for the Protch or it would be for the State. And anticipating the difficulties of maintenance, and looking forward to a long life of well-being to his beloved servants which had so loyally served him, he added a beautiful 3000 dains income monthly that they would receive while they lived. In that state of confusion in which they were, and knowing how they knew they were in deplorable conditions, bordering on misery, they had no choice but to accept. And they found a need for gratitude towards him about whom they were not allowed to know and a thousand unanswered questions.

   It was obvious that it was a too-large house for them: with two floors and rooms of the service, in the loft; in addition to the unnecessary room of the tower (a late whim of Mr. Woodward), there were too many corridors and stairs, too many corners needed painting and care. And an appendix had to be added, as a small Palace, with only one floor, attached to the eastern wall and accessible from the dining room, which seen from Castle Road broke the symmetry of the house but shared the same lines of all the main façade, the same elegance and futile ostentation. Maude and he had to multiply so that the house could keep decent living conditions while preserving its stately external arrogance. Because there was also a garden. Uselessly, they had tried to take care of it, but were finally overcome and had to accept the humiliating defeat. They had more money they could spend and, although reluctantly, resolved to afford the small luxury of a gardener. They had no difficulties in finding Ellis, who also had served the Lord, and that, still young, came promptly - so to speak - two or three times a week. But it was clear that he didn’t get used to the idea that those that often had shared a pinch of tobacco in the garden, or a portion of talk and gossip in the kitchen, were now their new lords: one of the many uncomfortable situations that the once Deanforest servants had to deal with. They had already lost the hope to make him see that they had not changed. Protch realized that they had suddenly turned into two rivers that did not find bedding where to take their waters, despised by the poor and by the powerful, who never accepted two former servants as an integral part of the luxurious Newchapel. They were two hearts in no man's land, a small constellation with which no universe wanted to be decorated. Herbert Porch’s reflections were repetitive and came to always lead to the same points. Anyway - he sighed – it was not worth starting to gnaw the same bone again and he had to stop thinking and open the door.

   Prudently looking through the peephole, he found what he already expected to see, but also something new, incongruous. A dirty man, a beggar who he did not know, was already going back and moving away; but he stopped suddenly in the middle of the garden, seemingly absorbed in the contemplation of the magnolias, as if he had just received a revelation. He seemed to ignore the rush, or not care about taking minutes or hours waiting at the door of the powerful, whether he was received or not; as if he had caught the glimpse of an unknown fragrance or had surprised the movements of a strange insect sucking in the flower and it was more important than the expected currency. To his house came many beggars regularly following the trail of a very different fragrance: the unmistakable smell of abundance. He didn’t trust them all, of course, but many of their starving faces were already familiar, and it was his custom to give them some currency or some food when they asked for it. He had even gotten used to buy packs of good tobacco - he, who years before had given up smoking - for a regular beggar asking the triple charity of money, tobacco, and a bit of conversation. It was very natural that he felt suspicious and wondered where would go the currency given; and if he was not contributing to the decline of that person. But he had always given alms and was a man of longstanding habits. Tempted he was, however, not to open the door to this beggar. He thought then that it was a very early time of the year for magnolias to bloom, although winter was declining, and the beggar seemed to be thinking the same thing, as if he were a connoisseur. Bitten in his curiosity, and as if something that escaped his control was pulling him, he finally decided to open the door.

-Good morning - surprised the beggar, initiating the conversation. You have a very attractive and well kept garden. And prodigious! Magnolias have already blossomed when there is still more than one month for the spring. And the same is true with rhododendrons, look. -He strolled one of the paths with the security of he who knows the terrain, overlooking the splendid cyclamen that mastered that part of the garden. The forests of rhododendrons, with its beautiful purple flowers clustered, were arranged along the western wall and continued at a right angle to the south. -Yes, it seems that winter is languishing and that the spring pushes; and these are, without a doubt, its heralds -continued that strange beggar, pointing to the flowers with his dirty fingers, but without touching them. Surprisingly, his voice and his ways seemed those of a well educated man. Protch had felt slightly annoyed, but soon realized that the beggar didn't intend to impose his presence, but just start a courteous conversation. And it was strange; he didn't intend to ask for alms. -Forgive me -he added, as if he saw his thoughts- I do not want to disturb you.

   Herbert Protch started to watch him carefully. He should be about thirty years old. Not too high. Just five feet and five inches... - No! What a strange aversion to the conventions of the progress of a country which retains medieval measures! Let the glory of the number to Babylon and let’s speak in the metric system-... of one meter and sixty-seven centimeters. Under the lint of his worn brown coat he perceived the wrinkles of an ashen shirt accustomed to sleeping anywhere, unique and grimy. Remains of fossilized sweat betrayed the smell of poverty. The thinness of the hunger was perceived in the flesh that protruded dirty under the neck, two shirt buttons unbuttoned. Smudged jeans and stained sports shoes completed the clothing of the gentleman. A clean and well trimmed hair and a beard almost clean, posed a striking contrast that was out of place with the general impression of the picture. The new Lord of Deanforest observed all this strange landscape in much less than what it takes to tell about it. But he noticed a glint in the watery green eyes of the beggar, certifying, with a sweet smile, that he noticed the inspection. Protch felt embarrassed immediately and turned the look.

-What do you want, good man? -He said, finding at last the voice.

-I wanted to see you, Protch.

   Whether it was a gust of wind or that a sudden cloud had swallowed the sun, he suddenly felt cold. He could swear that for a second blood had frozen and his eyes were clouded. The wall of convictions where he leant against seemed less solid. The house lost the foundations and the universe its axes. The beggar looked at him with tenderness and a gesture of concern. Protch never knew how long it took him to respond. Then he thought sadly that one doesn’t pay much attention to the voice of a beggar; but suddenly he realized that it reminded him of a voice both distant and beloved; although the one he remembered used to be strong, rough at times, and now it seemed faltering, dominated by strange passions. He looked at him again. Stature, voice and gestures could correspond to his former master. But he had never had a beard and had always maintained a scrupulous neatness in his attire. As a lightning it came to his mind the fleeting image of the seconds that he had seen his back. Mr. Siddeley always had been slim, but had strong shoulders and a stocky back, as he commonly practiced swimming and he was even champion of several tournaments, always carried by his competitive nature, which manifested itself in everything he did. He didn't know what to think: Although thin, the beggar had a sturdy back. He looked front. Despite his transparent eyes and beautiful features, his Lord had never been an attractive man. Disharmony was caused by his ears, very separate and prominent and slightly beaked, as of a vampire, circumstance that everyone knew but that no mention was made. The beggar seemed now, on the other hand, pleased, hoping that the astonished eyes of Protch finished on them. Just two seconds after his trembling eyes pointed them and accurate as the ray, hit the bulls-eye, he had no more doubts. He felt faint. They were at that time very close to the portico which adorned the entrance, and was momentarily tempted to escape through the door and hide. He was not sure, but possibly the world was still turning. Such was his uncertainty that his face did not know what gestures to choose, as if the lines drawing expressions had been deleted. If he had retained them, he could have chosen to bear a shy smile, to give him the warm welcome that thousand times he had imagined; but he found that he only had a grin that spoke about nuisance and in his hands nothing to offer, just a bunch of astonishment.

-Will you not let me in, Protch? –finally said the beggar, with sweetness.

   It seemed that his heart was pumping warm blood again, and with it color and wrinkles returned to the face of the Lord of Deanforest, who in the end could react.

-Nike! -said Protch, suddenly noticing that he could not see him. A warm saltwater flowed uncontrollably making his eyes fountains-. Holy heaven! Nike! -few had been who had called by that name Mr. Nicholas Siddeley, who had always been known by that nickname. He always had called him Nike. The words swirled him undisciplined, trampling. Well, who would have said that...! I say, live to see... but, is it you, really? 

-It is me, Protch. The very Nike Siddeley born nearly thirty-three years ago, the same that you have seen to become a man, although I understand your confusion: I know how much it should cost you to recognize me. But it is not an illusion of your senses or a kind of strange mockery; and nothing is further from my intention than annoying you. I just wanted to see you and ask for your health. Perhaps a little chatting. But you can choose to not let me enter your house. Tell me how you are, tell me something about your life in recent years, and if you wish, I will leave and not come back to bother you.

-My house! -Protch answered with disdain, and seemed to be cursing it. Annoy me! –he added puffing, as if he was only annoyed at the idea that so strange a visitor could be annoying. -Nike, if you think that after all that has happened I will not let you in my house, as you call it... oh my God! So long without knowing of you! Please give me a hug, and go in.

-I accept, at the moment, the first part - Nike said with a smile, immediately blending with his old butler in a solid, comforting hug. They were two men who cheered to see each other, who did not seem aware of the magnitude that separated them in the social scale, even forgetting that the prying eyes of neighbors might be pointing them.

   Protch was surprised by the heat with which he was embraced. He thought it was natural that his Lord - he still saw his Lord in this beggar - strangely, felt certain affection by someone that had been with him from the cradle and, despite being only one more in the legion of servants of the Siddeley (of the Gloucestershire Siddeley, of course), had always been distinguished with special treatment, as someone almost in the family. But not so much as to explain, satisfactorily, that his Lord had given them one day house and fortune. Why to them?: It was the question that was already becoming obsession. And now Nike embraced him as if he had just met one of his best friends. Protch overlooked the undeniable smell of Nike, who smelled more of fires than of dirt, and it failed to ruin the sublimity of that moment. He was excited. But the conjectures about him never stopped and the doubts that began to sprout would soon make a lake.

   Nike also cried. He knew that crying, in recent years, had become a habit; but he could not avoid it. At the moment he felt well. He had to act quickly, however, before Protch would say some things that he did not want to hear.    

-Thank you for the embrace - he said, beginning a few hasty words that were difficult-. More than you think the fact that you are glad to see me comforts me. But hear me well, Protch: you needn’t feel forced to let me in, believing that you owe me some kind of gratitude. You have nothing to thank me. And another thing -he added quickly, seeing that Protch so clearly disagreed with his words that he was about to say something inconvenient-. This is your home. Please, let me continue. I do not come to claim anything or to ask anything of you. In any case, some news of you and a bit of conversation, as I said. And it is important not to be afraid to use the right words. Look at me well, Protch, I'm a beggar!; in my clothes you can see clear traces of the street, where I live, and whether I went away or if I were to enter, to the street I shall return. But remember that it is not usual to allow a beggar to advance beyond the lobby. I know very well what I'm talking about. And our roles are reversed.

-Not quite, Nike. I will not say some words that you don’t want me to say, because I know you won't let me. And I'm not going to ask questions. But I can speak about me. And if you ask me not to have fear of words, I at least will dare to say that I've never felt the Lord of Deanforest. I am still a servant. There is no much difference between us.

-Yes there is, Protch. I accept your word, but nonetheless my descent is still steep, because below the servant you can only find the beggar. And below this there are only slaves. Forgive me. I feel that you are impatient to know how I got this far; I'm feeling your affection, and that moves me. But certain premises must be established or I won’t enter your house. And that is the first truth. Let me, for being fundamental, repeat it: this is your house. You can choose to not let me in. And if I manage to enter, you can expel me at any time. Remember, Protch: nothing forces you. I hardly remember Mr. Siddeley who was before. He isn't the one who would be in your house. If you allow the entrance of this man who talks to you, you should know that you are hosting the beggar Nike. No more.

-Very well, then. And because this is my house, no one is going to prevent the entrance of whoever I want. And I have chosen to let you in. In my home, Nike, there is no law that specifies that you may not welcome a beggar. I have nothing to lose. This morning I felt alone, and suddenly I find myself with one in the door and I think perhaps he could give me a bit of heat and company, because nothing I fear of his behavior. And not because I remember Mr. Siddeley who is no longer, but because so far, and although dirty and possibly hungry, he has had the manners of a gentleman. And from what I see, it would not be surprising that I wished to know the beggar Nike, rather than a man whom I will no longer welcome. Perhaps this beggar has an interesting story to tell. And if not, perhaps you can give me a bit of human conversation, so necessary. Come in, please.

-Touché - added Nike suddenly with wet eyes-: thank you, Protch, sincerely. I’m moved. I would have never expected these words. But with them I have been disarmed, even though in reality, I was willing to lose the battle. And as I have no more objections, I shall go in, as you wish.


 

   A few years later, in a night of cold that no blanket could cure, under an infinite sky, naked of clouds and evil spirits, Nike walked on frost. And he found that someone was looking for him:

-"I could not sleep. And I figured that you would be here, still awake. I was unable to sleep when I once again remembered your story. Please, tell me again. I'd hear it one more time."

-"But I've told you already at least twice", protested Nike. "There is nothing new to add. You know it almost as well as I do."

-"You say that whenever you tell a story it is created again, because there are things that have previously not been seen. Aren't those the words you always say? And I am cold; only a good story can make me warm. Please I want to watch you, the eight, with your way of looking. I want everyone so much!"

-"You always get me to give in to your pleas. It is ok! But first we have to light a bonfire. Come, help me with the firing. There is a lot there stacked in the background."

   Flames crackled drawing strange silhouettes against the dark background of the night. The moon in Cancer; It was waning. Nike, half asleep, smoked to shake off numbness. He was going to start the preface of a story often repeated when his interlocutor interrupted him:

-"I just thought... I know how you can tell me your story as a different version, with additions."

   Nike looked surprised.

-"You could tell it as you told Protch."

-"Good", said Nike. He was easily coaxed. And the truth was that he didn't want to deny it. In addition, he was dying of cold. It would be better here, in the heat of the bonfire. "But you must realize that I cannot tell it in one night."

-'Well you know I have no hurry. Start!: once upon a time... ", it was encouraging.

-'No. This time I'll start with other words".

   Nike gave debut for the umpteenth time to a story known by the person who heard him: someone was next to him, someone who listened to it with the aim to fix in his memory every tread, each thinking, heartbeat, indignity, temptation, each silence...; someone who years later would tell the same story. That person will continue after Nike, accompanying him quietly so as not to disturb, letting his voice be heard: the warm voice of Nike, in that darkness of frost, with an inadequate blanket on his shoulders and looking at the flames with the tenderness of a lover, began strongly, as a Gospel: "that February morning I had got up with the morning twilight..."


 

   That February morning I had got up with the morning twilight. I had a very bad night, as you well know that our situation was really hard in those days. Close to the mountains, fog began to evaporate. And with the first light, the orange of the solar disk still lazy under the hidden eastern slopes, I already was on the road. An idea took me from the night before, in which I had encountered Herbert Protch at a short distance. He did not see me: no attention is given to a beggar during the day and one flees from him in the dark hours. But I did notice him. He walked sad and bent, when suddenly I heard him drop a lament and a curse and he began to cry. I had to overcome the temptation to run to him and ask: what is it you have, Protch? What happens to you? But if I had addressed him at that time, I would have discouraged him. I was already not the man he was hoping to see: the old man who returns from the darkness to give some explanation. And a beggar does not deal with a man who is crying. In those years it plagued me the idea that I owed him at least a few words, but always desiring to go to see him, and always postponing it, I had let it go. That night, however, something changed in me: suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps I could help him. And this is how that morning I walked northward, following the direction of the fog. The years on the street had prepared me to know the roads almost blind, and as I progressed, that white ghost was disappearing behind me. I was already in Newchapel. I didn't know how I would be received. But I also had nothing to lose.

   It was a strange feeling to step on the garden of Deanforest again after so long. The suffocating mixture of perfume coming from the trails and flowers, the ivy on the walls and the dirty water from the River, returned me images of fatigue: the old hangover of loneliness in countless nights of disgust and misery, the pain that the tide didn't take away... and in the middle of it all just the sedative memory of a brief period in which the house had been sanctified. I didn't have the feeling of returning to any home. It was long that my home was elsewhere. But this tingly feeling in the stomach that feels a little boy who is told that tomorrow he can see, after a long winter, that friend of summers you spent hours with building huts in the forest. So I felt like one who walks to the meeting of old friends: as I expected to find also Maudie. I was shivering. It would not be easy. But you already know me when I make a decision. I had already reached the beautiful portico of the wooden main door. Nervous, I finally rang the bell and I was surprised by its strident and out of tune notes. It took Protch an eternity to get down; and I already thought that he was not at home or he would have seen through the peephole and he had ignored me. I started to get away. And it was then when he opened the door and I saw him.

   It had been over seven years since we last talked. But a couple of times I had crossed him in the streets and time did not seem to have caused him many ravages.  Whiter hair, perhaps; a clear face, wrinkle-free. And although somewhat waned, he was still a tall man. He walked unsteady, occasionally a wince of pain. I was wondering how old he was: he might be about 70. When he saw me at that moment, an unknown then and so strange! admiring the magnolias, he should have got a strong impression, as I have deduced from some words that he shared with me later. But he was a man who knew to tame his emotions, with the silent expression and the tranquility of all servants in this kingdom, which never let it be seen if there is a light on in the room of the passions. Dear Protch! A man of integrity. Neither reckless nor petty. He might not have opened the door. He could have rejected me unpleasantly: it was really daring to be the first to talk, but my heart was out my chest and if I didn’t talk, it would have stopped. He did not recognize my voice. He inspected me discreetly but thoroughly. I do not know at what exact moment he knew it was me, but finally he found the cabalistic lines of abracadabra: the ears. Oh, the ears! If being a child someone mentioned them, they heated, I turned red and I broke out in all kinds of expletives. Don't laugh. Although, actually, it was fun to see how Protch, between his doubts, wove along the banks of the truth to plunge into the lake of certainty. He is a smart man and did not walk blindly. But I was worried: it had been a long time and I was unaware if his heart was resistant. After the minutes of recognition came the joy of reunion and broken, shivery words. He didn’t care about my appearance. Or forgave me because he was in debt with me. We hugged like two friends hug each other. We were not friends then. We had to build this path, as I told him. On my road to Newchapel I had meditated the words I should tell him if he wasn’t surprised at my unexpected look, and he wanted to answer with gestures of gratitude or the use of wrong possessives. I could not stand it. I had to use harsh words, which hurt me because it seemed that I was against his sincere desire to let me in. But the words he said, completely unexpected, had the virtue of being accurate, intelligent and heartfelt; and they showed that he had captured my intention and we could already start melting. I was finally in the threshold of Deanforest, and with a bit of mud on the soles, I walked, somewhat timid, in the lobby of the house of Protch.

   The coat had to be the culprit that we were entangled in new comments. He had affectionately led me to the hall, and then I noticed that my soles were smearing mud on the valuable Persian carpet: an exquisite piece, flesh-colored, overloaded of floral motifs. But my kind host stoically endured the sacrilege. He shut the door and in a mechanical gesture, often repeated, came to deprive me of the coat. I felt that I should protest:

-Please, Protch, I can do it myself. Forgive me, let me tell you something: recently several times in my life I have been forced to choose between two vile acts. And when that happens, one must weigh which of the two options is less shameful. I will make an effort to make me understood better. If at this point I was, personally, the one who removes his coat and hangs it on your wonderful golden coat stand, I would be giving the impression that I am still the old Lord, who suddenly returns and has the nerve to believe himself at home. But if I let you take it, it would seem that you are still my servant. Can you see?: it is not easy. But I have to choose one of two options and then I'll take the first one, with the hope that you get to know me better and don't think that I still pretend to be he who is no longer. Because the latter I could not withstand it. Do not serve me, Protch! I would prefer your friendship. But at this time I am only a beggar who was your lord. Neither before nor now are the best conditions given. Friendship is a gift that, for scarce, is not given to the first one claiming it: I have to win it; It is a difficult and rocky path that one needs to travel for many days, until there are calluses on feet, sharing if they are tears, tears; If the joy, the childish enthusiasm.

-I think that I am beginning to understand, Nike. We will see, then, if we can start that path - he added, marveling, as he would say later, at the change that had worked on me. And the strange language with which it was accompanied, amazing in the man that he had known-. Take off the coat and come in – He said, finally.

   I took off my coat. Just then he seemed to realize that I didn't wear a jersey: the gods of fortune had not been lavish in recent months. Protch looked at me with a look similar to compassion. I would talk about the Biblical curse as soon as possible. But I preferred to postpone it. Although I had to say something:

-I am not wealthy enough lately and the clothes I wear are inadequate. My smell may annoy you and I am staining, in addition, your carpet. It is undoubted that long have been the steps that have brought me here, but by no means sterile. It was a path consciously chosen in which I want to follow. I know that it will be difficult to understand, Protch, but I'm satisfied with the shit covering me. Anyway, I apologize.

-It is not necessary, Nike. I let you in, and I do not regret it. I must confess that when I saw you with that aspect, I was about to ask what had happened to you, but I refrained. Because, and a lightning would have not stricken me with such force, I had the certainty that opposite me there was a man who was at peace. You look happy, Nike, and experienced. I do not know what steps have brought you here, but I'm glad that you are staining the carpet. And let’s stop talking standing here; it is time that you advance beyond the lobby


 

   The staircase surprised transversal, from north to south. And then you had to look at it. It was an eccentricity carved in marble, carpeted, with gilded railings. And if the fascinated visitor diverted his look slightly to the right, he could even meet the eye of Jupiter, throwing with fury his lightning, Fulgurator, watchful inside of a niche. And one could not suffer the weight of his eyes without harm. The stair presided over a large central room with many doors. With so many chairs that they gave the impression of having been arranged to welcome the Lutheran Congregation; but distributed so anarchically that it seemed that they never decided what orientation they had to give the altar, or where to put it. And it wouldn’t be a good thing to err on such important matter and incurring in the wrath of Jupiter, so close. Chairs filled the entire House in a profusion of styles that could be memorized as a litany: Queen Anne in the lounge, Gothic Chippendale in the dining room, Sheraton in the library, Hepplewhite in the central hall (or Hall of Jupiter, to the familiar with the House), King George in the offices (with acanthus leaves) and in the mahogany lounge or breakfast room (with lion heads), Louis XV in the bedrooms... But the former Lord of the house looked at this splendor more afflicted than dazzled. He realized that Protch had not changed anything or had not left his mark on the furniture, as if he had always been awaiting his return. He regretted not having previously come to visit him. Nike let his eyes wander indolent, now that he was cured of old times. But he looked with contempt, without regard or appreciation. And he was forgetting that his thoughts were transparent and that, surely, Protch was reading them.

-This house seems to press at times, as if it would impede breathing. Have you never had that impression, Nike? It is true, perhaps, that there are houses that are damned. Any reason would there be for the Woodward refused to reside therein. But, forgive me - he said suddenly. He had begun to speak with Nike as if he were the regular receiver of his thoughts-: I said something stupid. You've lived here and surely I'm offending. 

-I would be offending you anyway. And if you have spoken, it is because you guessed what I was thinking. It is true that I was never happy here, and I began to regard it as stark and cold. But later I discovered that the same would have happened anywhere, because the cold, in fact, came with me. The houses, Protch, are innocent.

-Then, Mrs. Woodward...

-Mrs. Woodward enjoyed unhealthy jealousy. Though she finally had good reasons. It is something quite prosaic and nothing unaccustomed: she surprised her husband fishing in another bedroom. Not anything in the house, Protch -exclaimed Nike with conviction. But he began to suspect that the man who looked at him was not as happy as he had imagined. He regretted again not having come before. He wasn't sure of not having given him a poisoned gift.

-Go to the mahogany lounge, Nike. I want you to drink something.

   He let himself be driven gently. The mahogany lounge was the room where visitors used to be taken; but also served as a breakfast room: a room beside the kitchen where the lords of the house had breakfast. Nike knew that it was a welcoming place and came without hesitation, but his eyes could not move from the fireplace. He faced the first novelty, and fast and stealthy brightness betrayed that the eyes were filling with crystals. There, on the mantelshelf, were onyx watches, superb silver candlesticks and sculptures of naiads undressed, and a photograph of his grandparents: Thomas and Deborah Siddeley. The old conservative man had always preferred oil portraits because he said that cameras didn't do him justice; but this time he seemed to have forgotten the pose of worthy gentleman, and it favored him. Smiling, almost inexperienced, he held his wife affectionately with the arms. And she, with smiling appearance, watched him sardonic, jocular, surprisingly alive, illuminating the portrait. Light, as it acquired sharpness in her eyes, emphasized shades, shine. It was disturbing to see the clean eyes of his grandmother - remembered Nike-, which always gave the impression that they were hiding a secret. He knew her very well. He had grown up with his grandparents at Siddeley Priory; and the images of his childhood were numerous and threatened to drown him.

   Protch stood silently next to Nike, and when he saw him crying, respectfully diverted his gaze, which, without knowing where to set, drove him by the intricacies of memory. He had spent more than half a lifetime in the service of the Siddeley and knew well the adventures and vicissitudes of this highborn family, of their ancient lineage, greedy and haughty. That it was already stale when the first Thomas Siddeley met Luther in 1529, shortly after the second diet of Speyer. The Siddeley came from the region of the Cotswolds of Gloucestershire and by generations had lived from the wool, the wealth for which the region was famous around the world. But history already does not remember when the primitive Siddeley shepherds became owners of huge flocks to end up as canny traders who soon enriched with export, profiting from new markets that opened them the Hanseatic League. Of the Siddeley were well known their tenacity, the skill with which they placed their goods and their lack of scruples, powers indispensable to amass capital and estate. And so, the already wealthy Thomas Siddeley made a considerable fortune; and years later, in one of the meanders of the tangled religious history of the country, he enlarged the heritage of his family by acquiring the ruins of an old priory and built the great Manor of Siddeley Priory. His wife had already given him three children and was pregnant of her fourth child while he was on business in German lands. And being at that time in Marburg, he met Luther and another key character: William Tyndale. He, also born in Gloucestershire, had left his country after being accused of heresy, although the charge was dismissed for lack of evidence, and now lived exiled in Germany, where he remained completing the first Bible in the English language, which would be published in January of the following year. Thomas Siddeley, influenced by these two key figures in history, or influencing them (according to rumor repeated between the Siddeley), converted into the faith of the reform, which would mark the evolution of the family. Back home, the son who was born him, almost at the same time of the Tyndale Bible, was called, in honor of both reformers, Martin William: the first Martin Siddeley. But there was another primary character in this story: King Henry VIII. The man who once was called "Defender of the faith", in search of a male successor, needed a papal dispensation allowing him to divorce his wife, Catherine of Aragon, in order to marry Anna Bolena. But that is a well known story that will not be repeated here. Enough to say that the King, excommunicated by Pope Clement VII in 1533, ended up embracing Protestantism and becoming head of the Church. In 1536 William Tyndale was betrayed; and in the morning of Oct. 6, when he was led to his execution, he uttered his famous cry: "Oh Lord, open the King of England's eyes", not knowing that the eyes of the King, his former antagonist, were already open to the same faith. In that dark time began the prey in the monasteries and persecution of Catholics; and Thomas Siddeley, the great schemer, was able to infiltrate all this atmosphere of fear and conspiracy and leave with benefit. The last years of his life, however, would be bitter. Because he had to see the death of his first three children, and how only Martin William accompanied him in his old age. Thomas Siddeley, in the midst of his fierce bitterness, considered the fact that his son Martin was saved as a sign that God blessed him for his conversion and that it was his will that only Martin and their descendants inherited Siddeley Priory. No doubt - thought Protch – he had managed to interpret the divine will, as the line of succession had been maintained uninterrupted from parent to children from Martin William Siddeley until today. It is no wonder that to the grace of God is also attributed the long life of Thomas Siddeley, who would die at 70, shortly after knowing the first child of his son Martin, the grandson that ensured continuity; who by the King, and by Luther, was called Henry Martin. The son and grandson of the great Thomas Siddeley lived the days of the reign of Elizabeth I, and like Protestants they prospered, although they were never to be ennobled, certainly for their perpetual fidelity to Luther and their progressive alienation from the Church of the country. The course of the centuries followed contemplating increasing splendor of the Siddeley; and the arrival of the Industrial Revolution found them ready. They became then one of the most important textile companies in the world, and that was only the beginning of a host of successful investments and stakes in all kinds of companies. But Protch regained his steps and returned to the first Siddeley, recalling back one of their most striking peculiarities: When Henry Martin Siddeley called his first male son Martin Thomas he laid down two laws, kept and venerated by the family as unwavering tradition, as if the order of those historical names provided more tradition and lineage than coats of arms or titles of nobility. First law: since Martin William Siddeley all the firstborn have been called Martin, alternately in the first name and the second, with the circumstance, unregulated but never discussed, the name that was free should always be a different one, not previously used. Second law: from the first Thomas Siddeley name Thomas became a legacy of great-grandparents to great-grandchildren, in such a way that always three generations after a Thomas Martin, and under the first law, the world welcomed a Martin Thomas. And vice versa. This tradition had been handed down, as immutable law, to Nike, today the last of the Siddeley. From his grandfather, Thomas Martin, was born Nike’s father: Martin Washington. And thus he, Nicholas Martin, had no choice: he had come to the world as a small Atlas forced to carry on his shoulders the burden, if not of the universe, yes of a creation; he ought to have a son whose name was already predetermined: Martin Thomas. But Protch was wondering if Nike would continue the tradition, if he remembered it. And naturally, as the leaps that gave his thoughts, although sudden, remained an indisputable logic, he recalled one morning splendidly blue, in which, just arrived at the service of the Siddeley, the grandfather of Nike called him apart for telling him the story of the family. He began to remember old Thomas Martin: he imagined him on horse at Siddeley Priory or admonishing the servants at his house in Cheltenham, always with his chin forward, his erect way of walking, his way of highlighting the details, the inventions of his own harvest. He often behaved as a pompous tyrant who could impress everyone, except in front of his beloved Deborah, the only one before whom he dared show his weaknesses. So alike and yet so different, were Martin and Alma, Nike’s parents, who he never knew. It was not the first time that Protch wondered how much he would know of the truth. But just at that moment the last of the Siddeley interrupted him, taking him abruptly away from his thoughts.

-It seems - said Nike smiling coming to himself-, that you were reviewing the family album: the Thomas and the Martin. - But now his eyes betrayed a grimace of fatigue-: it is an overwhelming tradition, Protch, and it was impossible to dodge all of its melancholy in the moments of my life that I had to make my own decisions.

-I would like to know... - Protch ventured, in part to escape the note of doom that had had the last words of Nike-, I know it is daring, but I'd like to ask you what you did with the old family portraits.

-You can ask me any questions, Protch. You'll see: at a given time this issue came to steal my dreams – he sighed-; until I finally decided that they should be at Siddeley Priory, even knowing that there I wouldn’t return. However, I could not get rid of the portraits of my parents and I left them here, with the security that you would appreciate them, and that one day, perhaps, I could come to see them. Forgive me: it is not my intention to overwhelm you with my own memories. Anyway - he concluded-, that time passed. I will continue as I am.

-Please, Nike, sit down. You have to drink - said Protch clearing his throat, trying in vain to speak clearly. But just he had gained a few steps to the beautiful sideboard of mahogany where he kept the drinks, when he was struck down by the memory of the headlines of the Hazington Herald, the local newspaper, which he had placed that same morning, absentmindedly, on the table that Nike was now approaching. The jaws of the twisted King George lions of the chairs surrounding him seemed to open up suddenly with the same expression of alarm. He would not be able to avoid that he read what he had read: new suicide on Rage Bridge. Body found of a beggar in the waters of the Kilmourne. Her name is unknown. It was too late. Nike look dismayed.

-Brief - said Nike-, and soulless. Anyway, the city would have forgotten her name tomorrow. And within a few days no one will remember the event, and her story has no interest: another suicide on the bridge; an indigent without importance, no one that should concern us. Do not be afraid, Protch: I had heard the news. I've delayed coming over here to find on the road one of those who loved her most, but I knew it yesterday. She must have approached Rage Bridge on Saturday night. I know her, of course. In this city people inhabiting the street know everybody... and we have names. I spoke with her on some occasions, because she was one of the Outcasts and I live with the Torn Hand beggars. I see that you have not heard those names. But don’t be afraid: I'm not talking about strange clans of bloodthirsty purposes. They are only two outskirts that are contiguous. So picturesque are the names of this initiatory city. Allow me to add in her memory some words, by way of prayer: "I will remember you, Vera Lloyd, of the emerald eyes and hair of lava. In the short time that we got to know each other you made a groove in my heart, because we are members of the same order: the children of the street, the tainted with earth." Vera!: a woman always in love and frighteningly alive, even in her frequent deliriums. Because in recent times she lived slave of absinthe, her last lover. But I'm not sure that she wanted to jump. Perhaps she had a mirage. Perhaps she heard the voice of her Johnny, the son who has died, calling her sweetly from the river. Her mates cannot explain it. She was full of life, Protch. And it becomes necessary to banish certain misconceptions: walking in the street does not mean taking resigned steps, as if living one’s last days in an Earth without form or cause that abuses and beats, hoping to get a happy death that rescue of pain and misery. We are not waiting for death, Protch. We live as we can, but we want to live. Although again I apologize: I'm overextending.

-On the contrary - opposed Protch, so interested in what Nike was saying that he was forgetting the glass he was holding in his hands and did not decide to fill-. I'm listening to the words of a man I believed I knew who loves talking with heat of the people he loves. There is a change in you. And in your language. I therefore hope that you understand my intention to tell you that I'd like to know who you are. And what I can say about me is that I have no hurry, and I listened with interest. I would like you to give me the opportunity to know all of you, Nike.

-I'm overwhelmed, Protch. And maybe for that reason I want to add something, because it's not always straightforward to see easy facts, even if they put them in front of your eyes: for a beggar to open his heart, he just needs to be understood; and to listen to him with interest. And you are offering me, without charity, the two coins; and you've moved something in my soul when you've spoken of your desire to know us, plural. Come to this chance, I never oppose resistance. You will know me, or us, all you want and... - But he fell silent suddenly, an unexpected terror twisting his face for a second. Protch had just put in his hands a glass of genuine Scottish whisky, aged of malted barley.

-Forgive me –he said confused-, perhaps I shouldn’t have offered? It's just a drink, nothing more: I'm not serving you, Nike. But you didn’t reject my invitation to come in and it seemed natural that you had something.

-Forgive me. I am too transparent, and there are times that I curse I can't dominate my expressions. And I am sorry for your confusion. Because you have nothing to reproach yourself. On the contrary:  you are respecting, without knowing them, our most revered precepts. Because even in the street there are regulations, Protch; and we have a few codes: laws in reality, but we give them that name. They are the codes of the Universe and of the Earth, the laws of beggars. They serve to help to walk and not subjugate; maybe because they have never been written. And your wisdom has shown you that I would not accept charity from you, but nothing prevents you to invite a friend. If it is true that I am not yet, I would accept your invitation because I'd like to be a friend. But if you love me well, Protch, do not give me a drink. For years I've been fighting in that terrible battle, the same one in which so many have succumbed. And I don't know if I can say that I've given up, because it is a fight that has no truce; and the only security is to come to night and repeat the phantom of relapse has been scared away for another day. So I'm not going to drink, but I don't want to seem ungrateful; I would accept you, on the other hand, a cup of coffee.

-I understand; and you don't need to add anything else. Then join me in the kitchen. And as I make it ready, you can tell, without haste, what you want to tell me.

-Let's make a deal. I will tell you what you want, but only if you speak about yourself.


 

   Protch nodded and they went to the kitchen. Nike had described me the scenes from the mahogany lounge, where he had been going from surprise to startle. And no less daunting was observing the heart of Protch, a river that social obligations had turned into a retaining wall and he appeared to have been waiting for four words of other sincere heart, one that weighed the same as his, so that his clear waters overflowed.  And one day Protch told me that the arrival of Nike was the gunpowder plot and that there would come a time when the explosion had left exposed the floodgates.

   For my part, I would add that they had met on a morning when the gloom of the haze was defeated by dawn; and that, as it is well known, for this to return each day, the God Ra has had to spend the night in the Duat fighting Apep, the serpent of evil. But helping his father in the boat that takes them to the underworld, it is Maat, the cosmic order (because of what you've given you will get). Undoubtedly, the balance and justice of the Maat were with Protch, and when his heart was placed in the left side of the scale, it would weigh the same as the daughter of Ra and he could go with her and return at dawn, with its clarity. Or perhaps, if following the seasons was his whim stopping to shine in the night sky, the Maat would bless him because the star of Protch is Arcturus, Alpha Bootes (the Oxherd): the guardian that keeps the balance of the Bears. Herbert Protch, as your star, you would be the sentinel of humans entrusted to your care. Oh, Arcturus, lamp of the Oxherd, the server; the noble bear that became a shining star! 

   But let’s cede again the voice to Nike. And I pray that you forgive me because I grant them - and I want them - some of my heat and my breath in symbols. They were - we said - in the kitchen. And as so many times did Nike and his fellow mates, they were talking with free, open words; continuously relying on the strength of their vocatives: their short names, stimulating; before that, in the progression of their friendship, they learned how to give themselves new names:


 

   When I went through the door linking the mahogany lounge with the kitchen, I had the conviction that Protch wanted me sincerely to stay. And if along my two lives I had learned to read in the hearts of men, I knew that he looked forward to having admitted in his home the unknown Nike, rather than the remembered one; that even though he forgot not Mr. Siddeley and wanted to know what had become of him, he could wait to fit the pieces of the puzzle of what he called the Nike enigma, because meanwhile he was beginning to appreciate the beggar. And how many times, in the simple recognition of affection, the heat you give becomes a mirror; and if you then look inward, you can feel that the cavities are filling and you are no longer alone, because solitude lives of emptiness. In any case, it was impossible not to tremble and, after years of continuous surprises, life was still surprising me. That’s why, while drinking the coffee, I had no choice but to open my heart hinges to unlock him the door.

   I was dazzled by clarity coming from the North, as if once fog was dead, light had been released and wanted to make a debut. It was a radiant day and I looked out the window to watch it. But then, coming up with sarcasm, the horrendous silhouette of Hammerstone Bridge spat me its ugliness. Heatherling, instead, was really beautiful, but it was neglected; the rich people really did not set the same zeal in their possessions. A family of rats that crossed it at that moment seemed to look at me furiously, contradicting me. Without a doubt, the rats of the Heatherling belonged to a higher class. I looked through, but it failed to comfort me the snooty image of the north shore of Newchapel. But I thought that also their homes wouldn’t be glad at the surveillance, if they were watching me. We were now two opposing, irreconcilable worlds. In the background, vaguely seen, Northchapel marred walls had the indifferent air of being laughing at me. Protch looked at me.

-At the end – I said- I only changed from river. I remember that when I lived next to the Heatherling I found its beauty. That beauty which, though born to be beautiful, it has, not indomitable but civilized. Beggars do not live under its bridges, Protch. We would be naked under their mouths too open, like the mouths of scandal. Kilmourne, on the other hand, we revere as Liberty, as the street. We usually say that the street is the mother and the whore, which the same way breastfeeds that betrays you; but the fact that it is the mother, and it is the whore, gives you the strength to continue - I sighed, and turning  around, concluded-: anyway, I like the two rivers because I have been taught to respect the waters. You don’t want to look away when you understand them. There was a time, years ago in Venice, in which I missed the opportunity to understand them. They witnessed a dialogue we held, me, San Marco and the channels. But I got lost. Until long afterwards Commotion rescued me one night looking at the skies; and at that moment I realized that the magnificence of the Universe can lead to paganism or religion, but usually does not leave anyone indifferent.  

   I feared to be abusing his patience, but Protch encouraged me with his look. He had asked me to sit down and he asked me if I wanted anything to eat to accompany the coffee. I promised him, lying, that I had eaten that morning splendidly. I could perhaps have knocked down that barrier at that time, but I wanted to wait, and I am sure that you know why. I sat, however. He assured me that he would speak of himself while I was drinking coffee.

-Move should have a noun – he continued-, and commotion is insufficient. Because though it is true that you often get startled, it more often comes with the thrill of tenderness. And it is not the same thing, Protch. But we usually speak of commotion not to confound the softness of moving with the incomprehension of compassion. Because compassion means suffering with your similar; and if when you observe his path, it follows that it is necessary to suffer with him, you are tacitly saying that his life is not worthy and it is desirable to carry the sympathized to the supposed bliss of he who delivers compassion. He who gets moved, however, is moving in your direction, and he both can suffer with you as rejoice; and it is frequent that he prefers your company and you are not denied the dignity. So I don't like compassion, Protch, but I live of it. Because the alms giver does not stop to distinguish.  

-You speak with conviction, Nike –he replied-; and it is impossible not to agree. You are making me see clearly. And I thank you. I hope, then, I have not shown you my compassion. And if it were so, I would apologize.

-Not at all.  You are making me feel comfortable to be able to move in your direction. And therefore also your emotions are coming to me as if they were speaking. And if I see them well, they tell me that there are feelings that you want to express, but you still don't know how to do that and now prefer to continue listening to me. No - I added. Protch looked at me puzzled, amazed that I was reading his thoughts-, I'm not clairvoyant. I understand you well because years ago I went through a similar trance; a time when I got used to listening and speaking little. In that time I used mostly short, shaken sentences. And now I don't know if I can avoid this apparently plaintive tone, because commotion is still taking my voice and makes the words I utter an interior weeping. And if you still wonder about my language, you should know that people who I love moved me and many of them that you hear me are their expressions. They are words that they made me treasure, which I wanted to own. With them a story has been weaving. And in that story I have been created. Now I take them as clothes; if I take them with the forgivable pride of tears shed in Verôme.

   But as I saw that he continued to look at me in amazement, I continued:

-Forgive me: I am overwhelming you with concepts - but a new idea was emerging, caused by the suppliant attitude of Protch, who invited me to continue. He didn't look fatigued-. Perhaps one day you hear me the story of Jacques Verôme, or what I know of it through the words of someone who knew him. Anyway, it is not necessary to have heard it. We call motif by Verôme that moment in the life of every woman, every man, in which fate faces them against themselves and invites you to look at yourself carefully in a glass,  of whose reflexes can either come horror... or recognition and reconstruction. And it is even possible they both arrive at the same time, hand in hand. In that hour you should stop along the way to decide where to go. And it is advisable to see where you come from and examine the weight and measurement. Because if pain and boredom are pounds placed at one end of the scale; and if as counterweight you oppose it the extent of the lost years, it can be concluded that the indignity is the beginning of the balance. And now you can advance. At that time, it only remains to decide what to do with the freedom that Verôme offers. And always you may prefer the softness of the return; or continue forward with determination, either in redemption or in exile. 

-I understand - said Protch, who seemed to understand-: at a time of life it is necessary to stop in the way to continue; and there to review the past and the present to know which side is the future. Without a doubt, Nike, you are giving me to think about. I only regret that you took so long to come here.

-Protch, I like to be fair with people I want. And although you've promised that when coffee is ready I would have news of you, I cannot let you start without being totally honest with you. Because I owe you an explanation - but I stopped. The sound of the coffee made the conversation impossible. The smell of coffee, that intense exhalation of bronze and earth charged with its effluvium of trail and humidity, had the virtue of intoxicating me with its rattle of hurricane, its corporeal flavor and its evocative smell. I liked to drink it very hot, black, and slightly sugary. But I must continue-: I have been three years and four months in the street. You have been only two months less in Deanforest. This town is not big enough so that we have not crossed all that time, and indeed we have seen each other sometimes. We have, Protch, although you've not recognized me. We have met and even on one occasion you have given me alms - I gently stopped his words. His eyes were a sign of interrogation and a light rebuke-. Forgive me; I could not do it that way: I could not startle you, presenting me suddenly. I suspected that for very strange ideas that you had had of me in these years, you would never imagine me in front of the Basilica with an outstretched hand. Anyway, I don't want you to think that I would have felt ashamed if you see me there, just as I am. It is difficult to explain. I thought that the right thing was to continue without letting me know; or introduce myself before you openly and explain. And perhaps I would not have solved ever the dilemma if I had not been moved to urgency. See, Protch: last night the paths of chance had led me to Rivers' Meet, when unexpectedly I found you again. I... forgive me, because I don't know how to say it without hurting you. And I don't know if I have the right, in addition. For this reason I prefer that you freely consider if there is something you want to tell. I can only say that at that moment I decided that I could wait no longer. I needed to see you. Well, here I am. And you know me enough to send me back where I've come from, if I've gone too far. In that case, I would ask you forgiveness and go. And without reproach: pleased with having greeted you.

   But I wasn't prepared for his response.  Coffee would turn into a knot in my throat. 

-I understand: you saw me cry, if you saw me last night in Rivers' Meet. Vaguely, I seem to recall a lone figure which I watched from afar. But stay where you are: no one is going to expel you from this house. And let me repeat that I only regret that you have not come before, as you are right now. Nike - and suddenly he sweetened his voice, pronouncing my name with affection - you are a prudent and sensible man and I'm beginning to understand that you follow a particular direction to reach the heart, apparently disordered, but still faultless. And you could not have been more frank. Let me recap and tell me if I'm wrong: since you came, you have not stopped repeating that you want me to give you news of my health. And then you open my eyes so that I do not confuse you with a man that you know that I remember with affection but that you also know that now cannot help me. I do see that friendship is a difficult path that in the former circumstances is impossible; then you let me know, slowly but openly, the man who is reaching me out, if I want to accept him. So I beg you have no hurry to finish your coffee. I promised that I would talk about myself, and although I am not used to expressing my emotions, I will make an effort. Welcome to this house, Nike.

   It was impossible to respond and Protch, who knew it, made no comments. He stopped a moment to organize his ideas, and began:

-Actually, I don't know where to start. I could not say, even if my life depended on it, what it was that prompted me; I only know that I suddenly felt that I needed to cry. It is difficult to know where the sadness comes from in recent times. I guess that it is a combination of circumstances and I may need to ponder what is what is happening to me. Nike, I would like you to tell me if this Verôme that you've spoken about comes to all men, because if so, it is possible that it is coming, and at the right time.

-Surely it is. But continue, please.

-Looking back, it is possible that this sadness comes from afar, but that in recent days has been exacerbated by the absence of Maude...

-Sorry, Protch, forgive me – I interrupted, furious with myself-: I am still a Siddeley; you can see that there are certain things that cannot be changed. -It seemed I could never let go of certain almost genetic indignities. For years, people who had the dubious pleasure of meeting us liked to add the shameful tagline: one of the Gloucestershire Siddeley, of course. As if we were the only ones of that name or there were not others of importance. And we replied as swollen bubbles; arrogance and vanity. But at that moment I cursed myself because my Siddeley blood was revealed in that unforgivable oversight-. I should have started by asking you how Maudie is- because with that name I had known always Maude Protch, née Heath, an amazing, strong, unusual beautiful woman, splendidly Nordic.

-Don't you make too many reproaches to yourself, Nike - said Protch smiling-: I am sure that until we went into the mahogany lounge you expected to find her. And then, the emotions have been stronger than you and your concern for my health has been too strong. Don't be afraid: Maudie - and he stressed fondly the name that only I gave her - is perfectly. That woman has the Roman mothers’ strength, firm and vigilant as a she-wolf. I am the one who cannot live without her. I would still be an immature child if I had not met her - and he added as if it could not be otherwise-: I still love her, Nike, passionately. She’s ok - he said still blushing, but without making any attempt to hide it-, and her vitality has not waned over the years; but four days ago she left the city because his brother needs her. I don't know if you'll remember Mitch. He sometimes spent brief periods at Siddeley Priory.

-I seem to recall him: blond and beefy as an angel...

-Well –he said with a shadow in his eyes-, he is still blonde. But, sadly, little has he now of beefy. In recent months he has been consuming inexplicably and now he is just a spectrum, almost transparent. We fear that he does not pass this year. He is admitted to a hospital in the Capital and Maude goes to see him every day. The news is not reassuring, although it seems that he can get out of this. At least - he added - for another couple of months.

   Protch expressed caution but he was still clear enough. Damn disease, the last messenger of the Apocalypse proclaiming the proximity of the Millennium, had name just from the previous summer: dreadful acquired immune deficiency syndrome. But causes were not yet well known and one was frightened with the mere mention. I nodded with regret and Protch realized that I had understood.

-It is difficult to talk about it and people not seeing you as a pariah. Or to not think that we have in the blood the same calamity and we could plague. 

-Protch - I responded harshly. I refused to allow it-: we have already embraced. But if you have some reservation whether I keep some apprehension, we should embrace again, right now. I fear nothing and I am not going to make you feel like an outlaw. Is that then the cause of your melancholy?

-This could be the last reason. If Maude and I can bear the terrified eyes of uneducated people, we cannot compromise with the injustice that is being done to Mitch, surrounded by insinuations that fail to hide a perverse satisfaction in what they call the infallibility of divine judgment, punishing certain behavior that way. I ended up by not recognizing the God they made me love, so deformed that He causes nausea. I did not know where to find Him and finally I went through a deep crisis that led me to lose faith. And I will never find faith again if I remain convinced that He has been merciless with Mitch and his friends, who, whatever they say, are a few great guys – He didn’t add anything else, but gave me to understand more than what he said and I must admit that I was surprised: I regretted not having paid sufficient attention to Mitch Heath, whom I barely remembered. But then I was observed in a strange way, as if Protch, born of intuition, would like to make sure that I could count on him. He seemed to be weighing my power or my weakness. I trembled. But I knew that I should not have any reservations with Protch-. And in addition to Mitch’s disease – he continued - and everything that it entails, I must add my own illness: you've already observed that I walk with difficulty, especially in the mornings, when arthritis becomes more painful. I was diagnosed with it little more than one year ago. But my illness, my sadness, the loss of faith... I am afraid that this has a much simpler name, Nike; it is commonly called old age. I don't like to think about it, but I'm getting old.

-How old are you, Protch?

-Sixty-eight years, since last Wednesday. But none of this is enough to explain what I think. Putting myself in the place of Mitch has given me, in fact, a strange force. So it is not that, after all. They are too many causes and I only need to find which of all of them is consuming me: perhaps the fear of losing Maude or the absence of children whom to give our love and who may one day sustain us. I don't know, maybe this perpetual solitude: we have not made with the years many friends.

-I understand - I said harshly. I guessed now what his prudent words did not dare to say-, neighbors have not been welcoming, God curse them - I was furious. And I began to see the irresponsibility of some of my decisions-. Sorry, Protch. I don't know what part I have in all this, but I apologize if I've caused more harm than welfare.

-Not at all. Do not pay me attention, Nike. Perhaps I have been too reckless. But I am not going to let my rash words to lead you to blame yourself for the indignities that have nothing to do with you. And despite all the nonsense I'm saying, I feel that I have reasons to continue forward. This house – he looked at me askance - is large and gives enough work, once we gave up having servants; as you will understand that we wouldn’t have felt ourselves if we were served. But it is cozy and comfortable and we live without troubles - I was going to stop him, but he spoke intelligently and knew well what words should not be used to not make me feel uncomfortable. And when it came to us, moreover, it avoided us inclemency. My father’s brother, my uncle Aurélien, was already out of all danger and we could leave him at Orléans in good hands, or he would be here with us. 

   His uncle Aurélien. Maudie and Protch had moved away from me to take care of him. But he could not know by what strange ways I knew of his recovery and how in this way our paths would find the same bend that had separated us. I had not asked for him because I had the complete security that he was in good hands, the same as I knew he was no longer in Orléans. Aurélien was the third of the five younger brothers of Fabien Protch, Herbert’s father, a family of nine brothers from mixed origins, half French and half of the country, a great combination. 

-In a nutshell - continued Protch-, this evocation should have been done a long time ago. There are many concerns afflicting me, but I'm alive; and Maude, my dear Maude, is still with me. Well, this was my situation when a gentle stranger -he smiled - comes to my door and speaks to me of Verôme. And I'm beginning to see that I still have time to walk and not so much to complain about; because, anyway, you should already have learned that happiness does not exist

-It is true that it hides sometimes. And yet I would say that its certainty, as in so many other gods, is unquestionable. They have lied to us, Protch. If it is difficult to recognize it is because sometimes we find it, but educated in the conviction of its nonexistence, we pass by its side without seeing it. And they have not explained to us that happiness is surely a faceless God, or goddess, who only veils deliberately its features to make the steep path leading to it so fruitful for us both the search as the find. Or will it be that we recognize it, but that like freedom it seems to us a devastating idea and we run away scared. But if a hazard ever reveals it, its image is apprehended then and forever. Then, it is only necessary to not forget that she is a fugitive and capricious lady who sometimes dies young and does not reappear anymore. But he does not fear fortune who has owned it for a few moments, passionate and naked; he who has woken with it under the same blanket, sweaty, shaken; and has gone from its hand to drink later the wine of sunrise.

-"But if a hazard ever reveals it"... Nike - he answered in a tone of supplication, striving to find impossible words, which had to summarize the confusing mixture of emotions he was experiencing. He saw that I had already finished the coffee and feared that I would leave-, I would like to know if it is possible for you to help me to find it, if it is not a mystery that is forbidden you to reveal to me. And also if you are going to stay, if you are going to answer some questions.

 -It is only my fault, Protch, if I have not been able to express myself and have given you, perhaps, the impression that it was my will to maintain some kind of reservation. But I didn't want to force my presence in your house and many of the things that I have said were necessary. Afterwards it has been me who has learnt from you, and now they won't be necessary. So I'll stay a few hours, if you wish. But no longer, because in the afternoon I have to return with those who are waiting for me; and I have to earn my daily bread - Protch hesitated, struggling to find out if the offer coming to his lips would, inevitably, be correct. I waited. It was important to know if in the short time I had been in his house he had learned the answer. I noticed his doubts with tenderness, because I recognized myself in them. I finally sighed. He looked me in the eyes with firmness, but he said nothing-. Thanks, Protch, for the words you did not say: silence is often the only valid answer. I'll stay the time you consider convenient to try to answer you. Even to the questions you do not dare to ask. Because we will talk about everything. We can speak also of Deanforest, of what went through my head in that month of December from three years ago. But to put all my will in the effort will not guarantee that I can do it. That question, for example, has a complex answer; and if you asked at this time, it would be a good sign that I can talk to you for a whole morning and finally would have failed to make myself understood, because to understand the reasons prompting me you would have to first know the events that preceded them, and nothing makes sense if the events are not shown in their correct sequence. Therefore in reality, whenever I spoke with you, I put every intention for you to know the keys that you would need when you make the questions. As I have always thought that the important ideas should go at the beginning, although they may not be understood until the chronological order explains them. It is my desire, then, to please you; and the system to answer your questions may be worth. But maybe, forgive me, that wouldn’t help you. And if I read well what your silences have been telling me, other possibilities occur to me. Actually - I smiled - I'd like to tell you the story of my life.

-It seems an excellent idea – he said convinced.  

   We were there at the end. Infinite Protch windows had managed to move me and had suggested to me what to do. I sensed that he didn't need answers, but to use my eyes, maybe my heart. It would be insufficient, as blankets on raw evening. And we beggars know that in that dark only the words sometimes have the power to take away the cold. The story of my life might be a poor blanket, but it was the only one that I had.   


 

   This was the first time that Protch had to put a name to what he observed. It is one of the best known laws that a reality that has not been named, the human being is obliged to, and has legitimacy, of inventing its existence with a word. Looking at the new lines that mellowed Nike’s face, trembling in his memories, he understood that occasionally, when smiling, he didn’t use only his lips, but some odd force seemed to intervene and an inner energy was going through him, as if he smiled with his soul. That reality he had to name, and since then he called it Nike’s inner smile. Eventually he would learn also when it was illuminated.   


 

-Those last words, Protch, were heard from a beggar years ago: "I'd like to tell you the story of my life", he said. Thus startle simple things; and thereby they transform. I begged him to tell me and I was lucky to hear it and start finding myself. With some frequency people with whom I live like to invent stories. Or it would be more accurate to say recreate them. And you will not believe it, but I had a storyteller. Sometime later one of them had the audacity to put the facts of my own life in the shape of story. And the audacity to come to tell me about it. So you see: I cannot complain of my fortune.  

-I think you mustn’t and I will not contradict. Because I see that’s the way it is; and I do not know why it does not surprise me - said Protch, with a complicit smile.

-I'll tell you, although it is nothing special. It is, like all, a story of indignity and pain; some battles and hopelessness. But also... Yes, tenderness; of love and loyalty. And if I tell it, it has to be with the naked heart. I want that through my words, my works or misery, you can know me. I am evoking, however, episodes that you might reasonably object.

-Let’s see -he replied, with an expression that gave to understand that it seemed very unlikely. Despite the seriousness of the moment, I couldn't help but smile. But I had to say it:

-I like men, Protch.

-Yes, Nike. So does Mitch.

-It doesn't surprise you.

-Can I be completely honest?

-Please.

-Once I came to think about it. But then – he smiled – you managed to disorient me.

-I understand - I tried to smile- too many women. Well, Protch: there you have it. I should be sincere. - And I was. Though truth has doors which lead to unexpected corridors.  I looked at him, sowewhat unsure, waiting for his reply.

-Nike: "We have already embraced. But if you have some reservation whether I keep some apprehension, we should embrace again, right now." Are you satisfied with this answer?

-Much more than a fire on a cold night. I don't know what to say, Protch. Thank you.

-Let's see more objections.

-I am not sure. Perhaps, although I do not doubt your words and am sure that you've lost faith; sometimes there could be comments, circumstances... that still seem objectionable to you. It is not a story for the taste of some gods.

-Speak calmly, Nike. At present, they could not offend me. Mitch likes to say that he will only return to the temples when God apologizes for Sodom. It may be blasphemy, or maybe...

-Or maybe he should apologize if its destruction had been really his work. But I rather think that they are the words of a hothead who believed he was in the right to speak in the name of God, who is innocent. It is impossible that that is God-Fate, the creator of the harmony of the universe. It is his followers, Protch, who have been more than two thousand years dirtying his name.

-You do not lack reason. I've known some recently. But they assert that they are the only ones who can decrypt Him, the only ones to interpret Him better.

-They say it, but that does not give them the right. They are usurpers. They not only took possession of God, to make Him unrecognizable, but also of the common wealth of all men. For example, can you tell me what it is a Christian feeling, Protch?: Love? Mercy? Spirituality? Redemption? But don’t these substances dress the skin of all mankind? With what justification they claim the right to wear them and are sure that others are going naked?

-With no justification. And I am not able to locate a feeling that is strictly Christian. But you surprise me: I have the impression that you have found the faith that I have lost. 

-No, Protch. I don't think that I ever stop being a skeptic. Although perhaps I would have found God if the voice of his followers were not always there, disrupting search with their stridency. And, however, it is true that I live because I'm still fed by a belief: the certainty that the night will come after the day while I’m woken every morning by the voices of my fellow mates. So I have a faith, finally and after. 

-Your fellow mates... Nike, can I tell you that some of your words startle me?

-I will never be able to explain the power of transformation many possess, Protch, or some vocatives.  

-I'm beginning to distinguish a distant light in certain things about you that I could not understand. And I know from where the rest of the objections may come, that in your delicacy, you will not dare to ask me. And it is true that I could inadvertently make a hundred comments that would not be suitable. I am sincerely interested in knowing you, but in my view, now I have to win your confidence. Not for you speaking about yourself, that you've already shown me, but for people who accompany you. I can only promise that I will not judge them nor will I try to transform those who have not asked me to transform them.   

 -Many people, Protch, take half a lifetime learning what you've learned in a few minutes. I am shocked. And I understand the urgency that guides you. Before you hear any story you need to know, for example, if we are well fed. So I will make an effort to describe to you our living conditions. And I could start by saying that we manage to eat every day. Or almost every day. In one way or another, the goal is always to survive. And in the street you learn tricks to succeed. I would not call this indignity, but you are to have your own opinion and I'm not going to deny you the right to judge us. Somehow or other, we get to the end of the day. And if not, we always have an indignity permitted; to spend the night in the RASH.

-About the RASH, at least, I have heard. But it seems to me that there is another shelter for beggars near here, in Castle Road, which has a somewhat more reassuring appearance.

-Yes, Protch. Earthkings is called. But it did not exist a year ago. And I'm not going to get in, anyway. 

-I am sure, then, that you have your reasons. And I ain't gonna ask you.

-I don't want to keep the answer secret; I only ask that you have patience. I'm not going to enter; and I'll never be sure, but possibly it is a worthier place. Although it is more beautiful to sleep under the stars and some nights - I trembled - it is hardly cold. I won’t lie, Protch: I'm not talking about paradise. I come from miserable portals and dirty corners, from sludge of rot that can destroy the certainties. Because not all beggars are trustworthy. As in all of the guilds, you can find loyal or miserable, and there are beggars and beggars. There are some that have been begging by my side and have returned to their homes in luxury cars. Others who are dying of hunger and would not accept being given some bread to be able to deny you later the swig of wine. The human race is filled with braggarts and no street is saved. But most of us are united by need; and when we join to warm, misery, but also the recognition of shared pain, is spread from flesh to flesh, and what was mud becomes clay that can build certainty. I have spent some nights sleeping among the junkies and drunks, and sometimes a few meters away from some swine. I have inhabited with destroyed men and others to whom it is still worth the effort to get up. But the hunger that is eaten with them; the fatigue of every day that is becoming an unbearable routine that leads to disgust... and doubts; the same shortage, the identical smell; the same slaps of contempt from those who are on the other side; all this assures us that we belong to the same order; and makes us equal. It doesn't matter so much that later each is son of his story. Because there are many ways to get to the street. Not all of us are here because of alcoholism, drug addiction or mental illness. And we are not criminals, although it is true that everybody would look for the subterfuge to get money from others and need pushes you to go beyond certain limits. It would not be fair to hide it from you, Protch; and it is up to you to decide if you can trust me. I can only give you my word and expect that it seems sufficient guarantee. Because also sometimes I have been forced to go a little further. Once, for example, we stole a car - I confessed, while with my hand I prayed that he would allow me to continue, transmitting at the same time, as I could, that all would be explained-. Many times we lock ourselves in an almost hermetic silence and many others we talk without rest, as I am at this moment; and also you'll elucidate if my words come from some kind of madness. So how to make you understand that it is not so, if many of us wouldn't want to return? That may be the most difficult thing to explain.

-It may be. But it can be less difficult if I make a real effort to understand it. And at least, you will have it. In addition, I accept your word and do not need more assurance. And you are a sane man, Nike. 

-Thank you, Protch, but I have to prove it. In reality, everything would depend on how much haste you have and how long you wish, with sincerity, that I am here with you.

-As long as you want to stay. And when you let me know that you must go, I will not retain you with obstacles or childish words. I want you to understand well, also, that I would like to invite a man that I have known today, a man who has reached my house this morning bringing with him his scarcity and his dignity. And my biggest fear, Nike, is to offend him, or offend you all. And that's why I would feel better if I am told that if that were to happen, you would say it. Forgive me: I can't find better words to express my honesty.

-They are more than sufficient. And certainly, I should already have begun to tell you my story, if I had been able to decide at what point it begins. Because in every fable narrative threads intersect and are sewn or come undone whenever a character, in chronological order, enters the plot. Perhaps that is the reason why all stories should be told twice at least: someone who knew it should tell it to a second person and that person to a third; and perhaps on occasions it is narrated with the knots of the skein clear and tidy. With these words, more or less, began his story my storyteller; and he was right.

-Without a doubt. And he could be referring to all the stories. Or perhaps... isn't it so how you write history?

-Yes, Protch, and all the other fictions. Something like that it must be.

-Continue, Nike.

-I am convinced that we have your respect. And maybe I will explain everything better and you will understand me more easily, if I make you know first the stories of the beggars that preceded me, by way of short stories. It is fairly sure that that is a heterodox form of telling a story, but I've never liked the accommodative ideas and I've preferred always to question the conventions. Thus, in addition, I will enter the story without stridency, without false modesty or false pride; I will enter the plot when it is necessary to respect a certain chronological order. And so, when you reach the moment in which I speak of my own path, you'll see that many of the facts of my life were already explained in the ones of the three beggars before me; and that ours is a history of repetitions that, however, is renewed. But it would not be appropriate to start with them, when we who have come in the last place very well know that we would not be anything without the first four.

-How many are you, Nike?

-Eight. And all of us attach importance to the fact that every story has had its sequence and explains the following ones. Therefore, with us it is so important the chronological order: knowing at all times who has preceded who.

-Then, you are...

-The eighth; and as nobody has come yet after me, you should always name me in the last place. And if I know how to explain it in its correct order, you'll see that although in some way the first four were forced, and the last four decided it, the truth is never simple. But this system could take us more than one week, Protch. I would be abusing your time. And I don't want to be a nuisance. 

-On the contrary. And if you have not read it in my silence yet, I will have to express it loud and clear: Please, Nike, I beg you. I don't know how many days will be until Maude returns, and she will also want to greet you and get to know the man who is now. And if that's not enough, let me add that you are making me forget loneliness.

-Only for these two reasons, Protch, I wish to stay as long as you want. Anyway, and even if I have to go every afternoon, it is also true that I could return in the morning. And, however, forgive me; a beggar coming to your house every day would call much attention from people in the neighborhood.

-Neighbors and I, Nike, have reached the civilized agreement not to know one another. And you have also taught me that I am the owner of this house. Then speaking as the Lord of Deanforest, I would add that I know very well whom I must let in.

-Agreed. And I'm not going to put any more objections. But before I start, look me in the eye, Protch. I've never known how to lie and I want you to read well the veracity of what my eyes will now try to express. More than once I have seen in what you have not dared to say that it is almost a necessity for you to contribute in some way to our well-being. I have not allowed it of you; but at the end, and after all, I am a beggar. I'll tell you my life so that you first understand everything we don't need; and at the end of my story, and only if it moves you, I will make you a request. But remember at all times that nothing compels you; and in any case I'm not going to ask for money or to snatch anything of what is yours. I will ask you a favor, but I will not ask for something for me or my fellow mates; we have everything we need and if we lack something, only we must procure it. To ask you a favor I am going, yes, but only - and finally my voice faltered - for my kids.

-Your kids!

-My kids, Protch. I already said that I am a lucky man.

   The seriousness with which he looked at me in that moment could enter the flesh, penetrating like hawthorn. He watched me as a vampire hunter about to face the crucifix; as an entomologist that adds to his collection a rare insect he does not know the value of. I felt like the butterfly in the album, stung by cruel pins; but I held his gaze. His severe judgment on myself, in those moments of extreme confusion, only took him, in reality, a few seconds; and I decided that I should allow him, knowing as I knew - nobody better than me - that my last words seemed to be, clearly, contrary to some earlier. But he quickly passed from embarrassment to security and once again surprised me with his answer.

-After half a lifetime serving, Nike, one learns to recognize falseness and knows also when one stands in front of a man of integrity. I have had a moment of doubt for which I apologize. I believe you. But can’t I make you some questions?

-My family is not easy to understand, Protch. And I have already had occasion to learn, unfortunately, the erroneous conclusions that can be drawn without the valuable help of the chronological order - I knew, moreover, than any that were his questions, all would come to always end at a curious answer. But how could I let him know at this time? - I only pray that you wait a little more. My family is the greatest wealth that life has given me and you will not be surprised that still I am not able to name them without trembling. I thank their light amid the gloom of every day. And so I would appreciate so much your silence until the moment in which you know it in full. Let me do it my way and at the end you'll see what my reasons were. Because whether by rush or stupidity I do not respect the laws of the chronological order, I would lose my main reason: and that is that I'm starting to appreciate you, Protch; and I would like, with my heart, you also love them.

-Amen - He responded, with reddened eyes - . I will be guided by you, Nike. I have already had the opportunity to check that you know where to walk, and the course, in the end, is always appropriate. I accept your request for patience, and I will try to learn from the chronological order. 

 -Thank you, Protch. And I really don't want to make you wait any longer. I can start right now.

-Let us then move to the living room. I will kindle a fire and there you'll be seated more peacefully. And please, whenever you want it, ask me for a coffee; or even food. You’ve already understood that it is neither alms nor I am serving you. But I cannot have a storyteller at my home, or a friend – he exclaimed challenging-- and do not do everything possible to make him feel comfortable.

   We went through the central room again. But this second time, recovered forces with words and coffee, the opulence of my old home was no damage for me; and I even dared to defy the scornful Jupiter looks without losing my mind. I didn't get the eyes down. But the unbearable tension had an unexpected effect, almost like a vengeance of the god, in my legs; and after all this time without happening to me, I was limping again. Protch did see it. But I went ahead to his words:

-From time to time I still have a slight limp. But that is also a part of the story; and at that point is the skylight where I will enter, when it is my turn. The time when my prehistory ends and begins the transition to my true story. Once again, Protch, I ask for patience.


 

   It was never clear whether it was simple celebrations of society or business meetings. And more than one night he had entered with a woman and had invited her to a drink. But the living room seemed to bring to his memory a single idea: drinks, bottles. Bottle glasses in which he would find himself nauseating, deformed. Bottles of all bodies, seductive in the night and discovered smelly monsters in the hangover. Bottles of trips to hell. Nike knew that if he looked at them, he would feel sick again. To avoid this, he crossed the room up to the windows of the south and drew Castle Road back after the damask curtains. Asphalt. Walls of iron bars. Graffiti on Hammerstone Bridge. The breath from the containers. Grayish passers-by. But in the end he was lucky:  he forgot himself when he followed the course of an elusive cat that crossed the street, with great luck, towards the garden or the rats. He always liked cats. And they liked him. They looked at each other a second without saying anything, but the two had understood; and then both returned to their matters: the cat to some important issue that occupied it in the river; Nike to the heat of the chimney already lit and the tender voice of Protch who spoke to him, inviting him to take one of the cigarettes that appeared suddenly on the beautiful walnut table. He wasn't sure if he would like to smoke there, so close to the poisonous concoctions, so close to the smell of distillery that still seemed to be perceived. But he thought it better and lit one. He was standing, waiting meekly for Protch to tell him where he should sit. Because he realized that the movements had changed, that it would be unworthy not to correspond to his clear gestures of friendship. As expected, he invited him to take over the sofa, splendid red coral, and the best seat. He accepted it without resistance but timidly, not sitting entirely; with half of the body outward, fearing to stain upholstery. Protch looked at him with resignation, but did not dare to say anything.

-Please, begin whenever you want - he said, sitting in a comfortable chair to his left, to not stand between Nike and the heat of the flames.

-All the stories come from shade. But they become inflamed by clarity. Thank you for the light, Protch.

   In that hour of that day 14, in a February of one year which could be called 33, a storyteller and a listener had just met. Now, each of the two should play their part: the one with the agreement or disagreement, criticism or encouragement; the other in the property and the effort. And both were essential for the plot to untangle and the magic could flow without stridency. In that time, Protch put the ear. And the vibrations of the air approached the relaxing murmur of the river of words; When Nike, holding the rhythms of the classic formulas, spoke for the first time: "Once upon a time..."