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 on 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 former: he would give him some currency
and that person would leave in a couple of minutes. Whoever that was, he 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 - an unmistakable tone of calm could be perceived, of someone who didn't want to bother
but had long time ahead and a clear goal. A little angry, but curious, he
started 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 Mr.
and Mrs. Woodward, from South Dakota, had in mind when it was built; the name for which it
was known in the eleven years that it had been 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 was
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 for 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 the Siddeley family all their lives; 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 for a year in Deanforest, since the old butler withdrew his 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. At the house of Orléans arrived
a strange envelope with a citation from a law firm of Hazington for one day in
late December. A number in 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 monthly income that they would receive as long as they lived. In that
state of confusion in which they were, and knowing as well as they knew that 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 house too large 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 than they could spend and, although
reluctantly, they had resolved to afford the small luxury of a gardener. They had no
difficulties in finding Ellis, who also had served the Lord, and who, 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 his 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 got a revelation.
He seemed to ignore 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 that 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 - to 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 the currency given would go; and if he could not be 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, starting 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 spring
pushes; and these are, without a doubt, its heralds -continued that strange
beggar, pointing at the flowers with his dirty fingers, but without touching
them. Surprisingly, his voice and his manners 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 was seeing
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 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 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 an almost
clean beard eas 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 his gaze.
-What do you want,
good man? -He said, finding at last his 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 belong 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 had always been slim, but had had strong shoulders
and a stocky back, as he commonly practiced swimming and he was even a champion
ofin 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, a circumstance that everyone knew but that no mention was ever made of. The
beggar seemed now, on the other hand, pleased, hoping that Protch's astonished eyes gazed on them. Just two seconds after his trembling eyes pointed
at them and accurate as a ray, hit the bulls-eye, he had no more doubts. He felt
faint. They had been all that time very close to the portico which adorned the
entrance, and he 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 those who
had called Mr. Nicholas Siddeley by that name for he had always been known by
that nickname. He had always called him Nike. The words swirled from him
undisciplined, trampling. Well, who could have said that...! It's what I always 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 hug me and get in.
-I accept so far the first part - Nike said with a smile, immediately blending with his
old butler in a solid, comforting hug. They were two men who were glad 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 at 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 a certain affection for someone who had been
with him from the cradle and, despite his 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 overlookd the undeniable smell of Nike, who smelled more of
fires than of dirt, and did not 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 well that crying, in
recent years, had become a habit; but he could not avoid it. At the moment he
felt good. 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 difficul for him-. More than
you can think, the fact that you are glad to see me comforts me. But hear me now,
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 one other 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 now 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 the beggar 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 some 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 can 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 lonely, and suddenly I find myself with a beggar at 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. Or otherwise, 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 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 love 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 firewood. 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."
-'You know Well I'm in no hurry. Start!: once upon a time... ", it was encouraging.
-'No. This time I'll
start with other words".
Nike started for the umpteenth time a
story already well known by the person who heard him: someone was next to him, someone who
listened to it with the aim to fix in the memory every tread, every thinking,
heartbeat, indignity, temptation, every 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. And he 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 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 no longer the man he was hoping to see: the old lord
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 and 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 blindly, 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
when 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 he spent hours with building huts in the
forest. So I felt like one who walks to the meeting of old friends: since I expected
to also find 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
finally thought that he was not at home or he would have seen me through the
peephole and 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 I had crossed him a couple of times 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 man 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 how 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 was a light on
in the room of 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, with all 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 whether his heart was resistant. After the minutes of recognition, there
came the joy of reunion and broken, shivery words. He didn’t care about my
appearance. Or he 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 of my shoes, I walked,
somewhat timid, in the lobby of Protch's house.
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 myself understood better. If at this point it was ne, 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 those 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. 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 earn 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 pullover: 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 which I want to go on treading. 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. It was me that 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 from breathing. Have you never had that
impression, Nike? It is true, perhaps, that there are houses that are damned.
Some reason there must be for the Woodward to refuse residing herein. 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 in without hesitation, but his eyes could not move from the
fireplace. He faced the first novelty, and fast and stealthy brightness
showed that his 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 his 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, he respectfully diverted his gaze, which, without knowing where
to set, drove him through 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. And 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 generations had lived from
wool, the wealth for which the region was famous around the world. But history
does no longer 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 the Hanseatic League opened them. 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 thus, 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 to 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 robbery began in 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, since the line of
succession had been maintained uninterrupted from parents to children from
Martin William Siddeley until today. It is no wonder that to the grace of God
be 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 because of the King, and of 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
centuries still contemplated the 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, that 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 one Thomas Martin, and following
the first law, the world welcomed one 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
predetermined: Martin Thomas. But Protch was wondering whether Nike would
continue the tradition, if he remembered it. And naturally, as the leaps of his thoughts, although sudden, retained an indisputable logic, he recalled
one morning, splendidly blue, in which, just as he had arrived at the service of the
Siddeley, Nike's grandfather had called him apart for telling him the story of
the family. He began to remember old Thomas Martin: he imagined him on horseback 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 something - said Protch clearing his throat, trying in vain to
speak clearly. But just he had gained a few steps to the beautiful mahogany sideboard 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 very 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 Nike 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 here cause I found 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 the names of this initiatory city are. Allow me to
add in her memory some words, by way of prayer: "I will reme mber 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, her dead son, 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 on an Earth
with no form or cause that abuses and beats, hoping to get a happy death that
rescue from pain and misery. We are not waiting for death, Protch. We live as best 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 warmth of the people he loves. There is a change in you. And in your language. I
therefore hope that you understand my intention if I 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 easy to see simple 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, both
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 to offer you something.
-It's you who must forgive me. I am too
transparent, and there are times when 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 are good 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 from inviting 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 prepare it
, you can tell, without haste, whatever 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 to me the scenes in the mahogany lounge, where he had been
going from surprise to startle. And no less daunting was observing Protch's heart, a river that social obligations had turned into a retaining wall and he
appeared to have been waiting for four words of another sincere heart, one that
weighed the same as his, so that his clear waters overflowed. And one day Protch told me that Nike's arrival was the gunpowder plot and that there would come a time when the explosion
had left the floodgates exposed.
As for me, 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 dawn to return every 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 Ra's daughter and he could
go with her and return at dawn, with its clarity. Or perhaps, if following the
seasons he had the whim of stopping to shine in the night sky, Maat would bless
him because Protch's star 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 listen again to Nike's voice. And
I want my readers to forgive me if I grant them - and that's because I love them - some of my
warmth 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, 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 my coffee, I had no choice but to open my heart hinges to unlock the
door for him.
I was dazzled by the 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 of 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 their homes wouldn’t be
glad either 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.
-Eventually – I said-
I only changed the river. I remember that when I lived next to the Heatherling
I found some beauty in it. That beauty which, though born to be beautiful, it still has, not
indomitable now but civilized. Beggars do not live under its bridges, Protch. We
would be naked under their too open mouths, 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 tcan equally breastfeed you as betray 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 both
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, when
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
whether I wanted something 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 when 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 take 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 or 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 the people 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 Protch's
suppliant attitude, and he invited me to continue. He didn't look
fatigued-. Perhaps one day you hear from me Jacques Verôme's story, 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, when fate faces you with yourself and invites
you to look at yourself carefully in a glass, of whose reflexes can either become 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 indignity is the beginning of balance.
And now you can advance. At that time, you only have to decide what to do
with the freedom that Verôme offers. And 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 given time of life it is necessary to stop on the road 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 like. And even when 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
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 drinking 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, even if you've not recognized
me. We have met and on one occasion you have even 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, introducing myself
suddenly. I suspected that no matter how many strange ideas 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 myself be known; or introduce myself
before you openly and explain. And perhaps I would not have ever solved 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 my 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 I remember with affection but that you also know that now cannot help me.
You make me 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 was aware of 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 it 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 maybe in recent days it has been
exacerbated by Maude's absence...
-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 always known Maude Protch, née Heath, an amazing,
strong, unusually 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,
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 live over 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 immunodeficiency 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 the same calamity in our blood 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 reasons to
understand more than what he was saying 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, carried by 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 since last Wednesday. But none of this is enough to explain what I think. Putting
myself on Mitch's shoes 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 I'm responsible for 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 lead you to blame yourself for the indignities of those who 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; since 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 thus our paths would find the same bend
that had separated us. I had not asked him because I had the complete
security that he was in good hands, just 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 walk near it 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 and the find. Or may it be that we recognize it, but 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 fear is not known by him 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 hand in hand with it 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 my coffee and
feared that I would leave-, I would like to know if it is possible for you to
help me find it, if it is not a mystery that is forbidden to 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 whether 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 answer the
questions you do not dare to ask. Because we will talk about everything. We can
also speak of Deanforest, of what went through my mind in that month of
December from three years ago. But putting 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 in order 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. That's why in reality, whenever I spoke with you, I put
every intention for you to know the keys that you would need when you made the
questions. For I have always thought that important ideas should go at the
beginning, even if 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 finally there. Protch's infinite 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 evenings. And we beggars know that in that dark
only words sometimes have the power to take cold away. The story of my
life might be a poor blanket, but it was the only one 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 if there's 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 also learn 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 I live with like to invent stories. Or it
would be more accurate to say recreate them. And you might 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 can't
and I will not contradict. Because I see that’s the way it is; and I do not
know why it does no longer surprise me - said Protch, with a complicit smile.
-I'll tell you,
even if it is nothing special. It is, like all, a story of indignity and pain;
of some battles and hopelessness. But also... Yes, of tenderness; of love and
loyalty. And if I tell it, it has to be with a naked heart. I want you, through
my words, my works or misery, to know me. I am evoking, however, episodes
that you might reasonably object.
-Let’s see -he
replied, with an expression that made me 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 seem to 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 are. I had to 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 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 He 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 the rest of us are going naked?
-With no
justification. And I am not able to locate a single 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 as far as I’m woken every
morning by the voices of my fellow mates. So I have a faith after all.
-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, which in
your delicacy, you will not dare to ask me. And it is true that I could
inadvertently say a hundred comments that would not be suitable. I am
sincerely interested in knowing you, but as I see it, now I have to earn your
confidence. Not for your speaking about yourself, which you've already shown me,
but for the people accompanying 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 amazed. 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 opinions 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 it is called. But it did not exist one 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 you to 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 your
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 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; every day's fatigue which 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 of us is the son of his own 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, but it is true that everybody
would try to find 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 whether 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 best I could, that evertything would be explained-. Many times we lock
ourselves in an almost hermetic silence and many others we talk without rest,
as I am doing right now; and you'll elucidate if my words come from some
kind of madness. Or else how can I make you understand that it is not like this, 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 that effort at least, you
will have. 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 always preferred to question 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 this way, when you finally reach the moment when I will 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 whom.
-Then, you are...
-The eighth; and since
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 before 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 mornings. 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 make 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 you; but 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 us must
procure it. To ask you a favor I will, 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 one's 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 well as I knew
- nobody better than me - that my last words seemed to be, clearly, contrary to
some earlier. But he quickly changed 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 too when one is
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 question he asked, all of them
would always have 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 I'm 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 till the moment you know my entire family. Let me do it my way and eventually 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 sincerely like, you to 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, ask me for a coffee; or even
food. You must understand 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's gaze without losing my mind. I didn't get my 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 had always liked cats. And they liked him. They
looked at each other for a second without saying anything, but both had understood each other;
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 Protch's tender voice, which spoke to him, inviting him to take one of the
cigarettes that appeared suddenly on the beautiful walnut table. He wasn't sure
whether 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 their 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 his body outward, fearing to stain upholstery. Protch looked at
him with resignation, but did not dare to say anything.
-Please, start
whenever you want - he said, sitting in a comfortable chair on his left, to not
stand between Nike and the heat of the flames.
-All 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 them should play their part: one with agreement or
disagreement, criticism or encouragement; the other in the property and the
effort. And both were essential for the plot to untangle and magic to flow without stridency. In that time, Protch approached his 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..."
No comments:
Post a Comment