CHAPTER XXXIII: THE SELECTIVE SHARER
Ivory wings probably took me flying on a golden
road towards the instant relaxation of my second Saturday on the street. I had
begun King Lear, but my Shakespeare
is A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest. The others I read them all,
Protch, but I will not make comments.
That Saturday 13 I woke up so early that not
even Olivia was up. But after a while I saw her there and almost at the same
time John also got up, after having had two days of insomnia. He had grown accustomed
to the schedules of his twin, a night bird, but having to sleep alone, he
turned to his old habit of getting up early. At the bonfire I saw he was so
taciturn that we almost did not speak. I didn't know what to say and at that
time not even talking about our days on the street, or of the weather, the two
most common conversations, were any good. Thus, almost dumb, Olivia, John and I
stayed until shortly after we saw Lucy and Luke get up, with Paul in their
arms.
I was waiting for my mate to let him know
that I would go to Deanforest, for I must have an interview with my still maid
Agnes Moore. He and I would have a good full afternoon, but the weather seemed
favourable that day and since we were going to leave the morning to Lucy, he understood
that I wanted to do some things like going to Deanforest.
Once there, I waited in the library for half an
hour for Agnes' arrival. And when I felt her key, at 9, I went straight to
greet her.
− "Good morning,
Agnes. Come, let's go to the kitchen. I need to talk to you."
It was clear that she found Mr. Nike, as she still
called me, very strange. And much more when I offered to make her a cup of
coffee. She didn't answer for she didn’t know how to tell me that it was not suitable
for the lord, but not finding the words to say no, she meekly was
resigned. She liked it with milk and I did not have any problem to heat some.
Then we sat at the kitchen table and began a difficult conversation, or I would
almost say a monologue. Agnes just listened to me.
I was twenty minutes trying to explain
something difficult, because I constantly stumbled. It was not easy to refer to
her that Mr. Nike had been a beggar for nine days, and he also wanted to get
rid of Deanforest; and at the same time I assured her that her salary was not
going to decrease in the next two years; I wanted to convince Miss Beaulière, whom
she knew, so she hired her and that if she did, she would be for two years with
two salaries, for my commitment with her was firm. It was an arduous job because
constantly Agnes interrupted me, with her compassion as a clear flag.
− "And now that
you know, Agnes, could you call me Nike, only Nike?"
Her answer was an emotional babble, but she
hit the target.
− "Nike –and she
swallowed. Apparently it was very difficult for her to call me thus−, I'm not
very smart and I do not know if I understand things correctly. But every human
being should be entitled to go his own way without anything preventing him.
I don't know whether you should continue paying me if one day you no longer have
Deanforest, Mr. –and she blushed−, excuse me, Nike. But it has been a
pleasure."
Whatever it was the esteem she had of
herself, the truth is that she managed to say the fundamental. Since that
October everything moves me. But I managed to stutter an answer. Mine was still
Deanforest and she could come every Saturday to give it the necessary cleaning
so that the house did not come down. And when it was no longer mine, I would
come to talk to her before delivering it. It was so agreed. And satisfied both
sides, I left her with her tasks and returned to my outskirt.
The tawny morning heralded gold pearls for
that afternoon in October. It was going to be hot when my mate and I were
recognizing all the east of the Templar district. Meanwhile, I thought of
spending the morning at times reading and at times talking to Luke, the only
one that used to be there at that time. But I noticed that Mistress Oakes and
Olivia had not left yet. After greeting them, they spoke of their intention to clean
"the house" once a week. When I asked if I could help them, they told
me to come up with them and carry buckets to the river to fill them with water.
We climbed and then I got two buckets with which I made several trips to the
Kilmourne. When I returned I asked them to teach me to clean but Mistress Oakes
told me that the important thing was that I had offered and I would have time
to learn anything else. I asked them to tell me the next time and they spoke of
the next Thursday, day 18. That day I began to learn what I had not yet learned
in September at Deanforest. Since then I deal with "the house"
regularly, and if one day you require me, Protch, I assure you that I could
take care of the cleaning of Deanforest.
But finally, wrapped in golden lights we
returned to the camp, where I saw that Lucy had already returned. We always had
a time of conversation with her before Luke and I went to the street. The
morning had begun well; now my mate and I had to fulfill our part in the
contract and, somewhat dozing after a day of autumn sun that arrives by
surprise after several days of clouds and rain, we were on our road.
Hand in hand with my mate, this time we turned
right after Alder Street. I already knew Mill Bridge, which is seen in the
background and knew that if the evening was good, we would return there. With
this objective in mind, we walked finally to Damascus Road. A main street in
the village, it was unrecognizable these days because the City Council had finally
decided to clean a little its face and pave it. But meanwhile the
neighbors seemed determined to help to its poverty. Then walking along its nonexistent
sidewalks was chaos, accompanied in addition with clothes hanging in the penorious
balconies, walls where there was once good lime, now vanished, trash everywhere,
starving dogs which ran awys from the mischief of insufferable children, ghosts and
misadventures. I wondered whether when Damascus Road was finally in order its
inhabitants would help somehow to its glory.
Before reaching the junction with Jerusalem
Street I had already perceived the enormous cross of St Mark, the most humble
church of the city, where, convoluted and cyclopean, it seemed larger than the
dazzling white of the rest of the temple. It startles the first time you look at it and
I was about to scream, when Luke interrupted my thoughts.
− "In this
church, Nike, my father exercised his Ministry. And when I came to the street
it wasn't easy to adapt my thought to the fact that he earned his living inside
and me outside begging, but somehow it has always been linked to the Prancitt
family. Even my brother, an obvious agnostic, enters every time he sees it open
and prays the Lord’s Prayer in memory of my parents. It has a low but devoted
parish. Now you will see that it is never abandoned. There is always someone
in. Let's go. I want to show you something."
There were two or three women in mourning
kneeling and praying or in a side chapel, lighting candles to any image. The
entire church was crossed by an atmosphere of mystical meditation, and evoking Luke’s
father, I was overwhelmed. Moved he led me to a statue of Mary taken care of with
loving care in a corridor on the right.
− "When we go to
my brother's house, remind me to show you some photos of my mother. The first
time my father saw his parishioner Margaret was here and many times he told me
that she seemed to be looking at herself in a mirror, her face alike that of
Virgin Mary, as if both had been carved by the same hand. You may not find them
similar, but whenever I come to this church I stop awhile and I cry for a few
seconds. I don't want to scare you, Nike, but I loved her so much. I lost her
when I was twelve and this is the only place where I keep seeing her."
It is impossible to find any comforting words
when you see a friend crying. I respected his silence and his tears until I
decided to merge with him in a new embrace. I could not do more. And finally,
still with a moist face, he spoke to me again.
− "Now you know
what the reason is why I had not brought you before to St Mark. My father was
about to call me Mark, but finally he chose the name of another evangelist, who
my mother preferred. And for my brother they chose a name shared by two apostles.
Come, my melancholy is going. Let's go and let us do our job."
On the threshold of St Mark, devoid of
staircase, we were for an hour and a half. Besides us there was only a man
begging, Youssouf, the first black beggar that I saw in the city. Now there are
many more. As I understood him, he came from Bamako, Mali, and they had spoken
to him, as to so many others, of the prosperity of this country, but not
finding a job because of his color, he ended up on the streets. Even for
alms parishioners seemed to take into account a white skin and coins
fell into our hands. Youssouf finally left, tired and hopeless; twice as
difficult it was for him to harvest the daily bread. For Luke and me the
afternoon was being good, and after an hour and a half we left St. Mark.
From what little was left of Damascus Road
and the 100 metres from Castle Road to Knights Bridge, Luke was speaking to me
of Youssouf.
− "It still
shakes me to think, Nike, that little more than one year ago he would have been
considered a perfect victim in my macabre raids: a beggar and black. Now if we meet,
we start to talk peacefully, as two good friends. But it is regrettable that if
you ask for alms on his side, you're lucky, because racism leads people to
prefer dirty and shameful beggars like me if your skin is white. He has to be
the whole day on the street, but manages to eat every day. So he is still
looking for a job, but it is not easy that they give him one. He has thought
more than once of returning to Bamako. Well, it is not easy to know how to
choose a path."
But we stopped the conversation when we were
next to Knights Bridge. Several things distracted my mind at that moment. On my
left started, only there clean, Wall Street. Easily I saw the grey skeleton of
the Great Hospital and its annexes and the grim-faced individuals who were
going to commit criminal acts in the surroundings of the Philip Rage and across
the north of the street. I couldn't see Wrathfall Bridge, where I knew all my mates but Luke had lived. Moreover, all the west shore of the river was
the Seductress’ Outskirt, a dirty and agitated ribbon, guarded by elm trees and
dangerous descents among wooded ravines.
On the few meters that we walked on top of
the bridge, before walking a dusty trail on the right, Luke explained to me
that this was overloaded with gargoyles and chimeras and I even seemed to
distinguish the stone figure of a gloomy guy wrapped in a cape and with eyes
strangely wide open as if it were necessary to keep them thus to perceive
something beyond the fog. More than once I had crossed it by car to reach the
blast furnaces that were perceived in the distance, to the east, making the already ugly district of Arcade still uglier. But it was Bruce's former home, and I
looked at it with respect. Crossing for the first time on foot, the steps
echoed in the ancient, majestic, stone of this superb bridge and its grandeur
and the figures carved on their sides shook me and in the afternoon heat, my
skin stood on end and was chilled.
Only with a very good will it could be
called a trail the confusing mixture of mud and gravel that we began to grind to
go up to Knights Hill. And in addition to noticing the hairless skull of that
promontory, bare of trees, I meditated about Luke’s story, which he had told
me, and with which dark intentions he had climbed it the still close Nov. 18, not
suspecting that he would end up staying with them. Knights Hill was the only outskirt
on the other side of the river. The murmur of the water behind me was not
enough to dampen that desert. I wanted to imagine them there, visible by
everybody, scorching in their tents, praying for the fan of the wind, the wet kiss
of the rain or a handful of fog that granted them for a few moments a little
privacy. There were trails that descended toward Arcade, and Luke wanted to
show me the point where more or less the three women’s tents had been. That of Lucy
at the beginning, before the descent. There they had been sleeping together for almost a month.
We stood awhile on the top of the hill. From there I got to see the house
number 1, William Rage's house. It was an opulent mansion, where everything
seemed to have been made big, but with no taste. Too much façade, too many
windows, too much expense for so little result. The house, rather than impress,
repelled. The façade was filled with tiles with biblical scenes, some of them
exquisite perhaps, but they were too many and for the eyes they were boredom.
As a contrast, three houses beyond, number 7, the home of the Prancitt, stone
and brick where you could see that they gave shelter to a home of dignity,
windows like clean eyes hugging the horizon and a spacious balcony where there
were three or four bedrooms, solid and, at that time, of sun illuminated.
But then my mate took me to the south side,
the descent into the Umbra Terrae Boulevard. There really was an old resistant
elm, now very old but still with good wood. Luke wanted me to see something
in particular and finally I read in the ancient trunk of the giant some letters
that shook me: "Lucy Rivers". And a little further down: "Here I
was born."
− "Here she was
born, Nike, 29 years ago. From this place, if you look closely, the balcony of
my parents' house can be seen. And little more or less at the time a beggar
must be born just across the street."
In the same elm from behind, just a few
months ago, they had written a heart: "Lucy and Luke." And some
chilling letters departed from the heart: "Paul Prancitt-Rivers."
− "There are
those who write their children's names in the Bible. As long as this elm
is not knocked down by time, here it will be, as a testimony of my family. This
tree is in this area at the mercy of winds, but it will last longer than
us."
− "Amen." –It
was the only thing I was able to say.
There we stayed for a longer while as if we were praying, while Luke’s eyes
were wet, ten minutes in that accompanied silence of mutual shiver. But finally
we went down the hill along the same path, the only possible descent towards
Knightsbridge Street, back to Knights Bridge. This street retained the name
until it reached Jerusalem Street and Arcade Bridge. From there, south to Mill
Bridge, it was called Brushwood Street.
Luke had a key, but he used to ring the bell
when he went to his brother's house. Within minutes James with a warm smile and was waiting for us, came to greet us.
− "I was eager to
see you, my brother’s brother. Please be welcome, to our home and our
hearts."
Nothing seemed to have changed in James. His
warm smile, whenever he addressed me, had brightness and fire. In his house you
had to go up a staircase to get to the living room, on the first floor.
Everything was neatness, light, clarity. I could picture my mate there, living
happy his childhood and his tumultuous adolescence, of thorns and violence.
In the living room, full of family memories,
I could see a picture of Margaret Prancitt, before sitting down. It was a classic
photograph in which I saw her holding a bouquet of roses in her hand. But I
looked especially at her face. Her light was extinguished too soon, but as long
as it shone, her happiness was radiant. Just as happy I watched Paul Prancitt,
first in a photograph where I recognized the outside of the church of St Mark;
then a snapshot in which they were both together, tenderly embraced near a
bridge in a day of dazzling sunshine. Luke told me that this was Arcade Bridge,
and the large garden I saw was Umbra Terrae Boulevard. In it Margaret’s face
did remind me of the Virgin. Her countenance was more enlightened. What in the
Virgin was anguish, in her it was bliss and hope.
− "Here they
really look alike, Luke. In fact your mother was very pretty. And although I
have no photograph of Alma Siddeley, my mother, whom I never knew, I would say
that they have a certain resemblance."
− "Thanks,
Nike. They had to look alike: we are
twins."
− "I would like you
to explain to me how it all started −said James−, I mean how you started
calling each other twins, brothers, and everything else."
Luke let me take the initiative, frequently
nodding to my words and only some murmur occasionally made me understand
that I was explaining well how the way we called each other has begun. But after
ten minutes he said he wanted to go awhile to St Mark. But he insisted that I
should stay there. I understood that James wanted to talk to me alone and that
Luke wanted to walk away tactfully.
− "Nike –he
started−, now you are mates, aren’t you?"
− "We are, James.
If what I wish comes true, I will stay with them forever, but I do not know whether
it depends only on me."
−“I think that as long
as you keep on desiring it, you are going to be. My brother really needs you, increasingly more, and I see in your eyes that he is also very important for
you."
− "He really is.
And Lucy and the little king. And all my mates."
− "Let me tell
you something about my brother. In the year he has been in the street, he has been
here a few times, mostly to see me. But the seven have only slept one night in
this house. And Luke, apart from a shower from time to time, never asks me for anything.
I don't know if it is pride..."
− "In the short
time I have been in the street, James, I think it is something else. It
is our life and the fact that no one else should solve our problems. He may
want to make you understand that he is independent and that he can raise his
family. Your brother, my mate, is inexhaustible and nothing defeats him. Thus,
with Lucy's help, Paul will always have everything he needs."
− "Thanks, Nike −he
was moved−. I'm not surprised that he likes you so much −he looked at me as if
he knew something that I didn't know yet that sooner or later I would discover−.
I understand all that. But since he is my brother and I love him, it hurts me that
one day he could be really hungry or dying of cold and intuit that not even then
he would come here for clothes, blankets or some food. I know that if his son
or his wife one day really lacked something he would come to ask me for it, but
I'm afraid for him. So I wanted to stay alone with you and beg you, Nike, not
to allow it. If at any time your need, your real need, or that of any of your
mates, seems extreme to you, please come here, I beg you to take whatever is in
the fridge, or to take something warm, and convince them to come to spend
another night here. But what do you think of what I tell you, Nike? What do you
think of me?"
− "I think you
really love him, James, and you love us. We are always in your thoughts. But
what can I really do? I do not want to see one day their absolute necessity but
if they feel it, I have to feel it too. I am his mate and I have to live whatever
there is in store for him. However I assure you that Lucy and Paul will not
have any need."
− "And what about
the others, Nike? And about you?"
− "I don't want
to see anyone's absolute necessity, but seriously, James, can I do anything
else?"
− "Can you see
this key? It is a copy of mine. Luke has another one. This, if you accept it,
would be for you, so you can enter this house whenever you want whenever it is necessary,
whether I am here or not."
− "The clothes he
will recognize." –I said, still not knowing what to do.
− "First floor,
first room on the right, in the closet there are clothes and blankets he will
not recognize, I have just bought them, for men, women and children. You can see
the kitchen from here, at the end of the hall. Please, Nike, accept the key.
And now with it, think it calmly."
I finally capitulated. What James feared
was common sense. And I understood. The seven would accept nothing from me
either.
− "Give me the
key, James. I promise that none of our mates or Paul will die of
starvation or cold. But anyway, Luke and I are going to fight."
We were half an hour more waiting for his
brother’s return. At that time I had in my pockets seven keys, Protch: from
each of my three cars, the keys of Deanforest, that of the "house", the
one of the showers of the Thuban and James’ key for the house in Knightsbridge
Street. But we were still talking and though what mattered we had already
spoken about, I now began to ask him questions about the university or the
carpenter’s shop where he worked. He also showed me a list, similar to the one
you have now, Protch, where his brother had written down the names of our stars
and what constellation they belonged to, and when, he thought, they could be
seen. We were just starting the stellar conversation, still two apprentices,
when we heard the key. Luke had returned well provisioned. That afternoon we
would need no more begging. We would only have to go to the eastern outskirts
so that I would know them. So, with few words, we said goodbye to James that afternoon and he
did not stop us, and we went back to Knightsbridge Street. This street, which
was becoming wider as it joined Arcade Bridge, we walked mostly in silence. Now
I had a secret, that of the key, which took me a month to tell Luke.
Arcade Bridge should be the typical Hazington postcard, an architectural masterpiece, a real whim for the wealthy in the
midst of the misery of the east of the city. The arcades of its name are those
of Brushwood Street, a poor but very orderly street, where every house has its
own, some with abundant windows like eyes that watch the boulevard. We went
through it and right away we were in Umbra Terrae Boulevard. The river crossed throught the middle
and there were beggars on both sides. I had been there with Anne-Marie, in the
north of the park. Now I was with Luke in the south I didn’t know. The north is
statelier, surrounded by glass lakes, exquisitely cared, and exotic trees. The south
is wilder, fuller of beggars and the trees are best known, and very beautiful
with the jewels of Arcade Bridge and some hill with a pavilion from where you can see the whole park, the bridge and the beautiful Brushwood Street.
As I had told Luke that I did not know the southern
side of the boulevard, we continued there for half an hour more, recognizing
paths and sometimes sitting on a bench and doing our job, for even though the
day had been good, a beggar never ceases to work if you find yourself suddenly
with a crowd of prosperous appearance that can give you a small contribution to
your mates so that they can start tomorrow with something in their pockets.
We were still being rewarded, but after a
time, we went back to Arcade Bridge and crossed down a path on the right. From
there up to Mill Bridge was Blood Cattle Route, which I finally knew. All
the west shore was full of beggars. The blood of the name surely came,
explained Luke, from the many slaughterhouses there were in the place before.
They were no longer, nor old shepherds who used to take their herds there. The
shore was very wide and in it you could see beggars who lived in tents, almost
lost among the high reeds you could find in the waters of the Kilmourne. But as soon as
we arrived, a well-known face came to greet us. It was the long-lived Sheila
Grant, whom I had already been introduced. She welcomed us, she said, to the Blood
"because blood we are and unto blood we shalt return", paraphrasing God.
There were two or three large rocks where they used to sit and she invited us
to take a seat. Sheila was not the only one. In the surrounding area was also a
woman beggar introduced as Myra Duke. She was a woman of about 30 years, blonde
and very dirty, and as I deduced of her conversation she considered the world
as a market in which all of us were marketable, where the only possible
redemption was the auction of our souls. And then there came the woman who some
days ago I had mistaken with Lucy. She wore some hippie clothes, like my
mate, was red-haired and she was introduced as Sue. It seems that their
mates knew nothing more about her. This beggar is a mystery. From afar she
looks quite lucid and you still think so unless she talks to you. Her chatter
is the product of a daily bath in the mud of drugs and her mind is a carousel
where constant images of monarchies spin, who knows why more and more the only
occupation of her brain. But then she was still interested in all kinds of
gossip and she saw herself as the secret daughter of a potentate and
explained that one day her father would know her and help her change her life.
Luke always said ok, but argued with Myra, from which I figured he believed Sue
to be unrecoverable but he thought Myra was extravagant, but sane.
But we watched on a southernmost rock two
faces I already knew. They were the Spence brothers. The eldest, Nathan, was lying on Joey's shoulders, seemingly asleep, but he should still be awake,
because his brother made clear gestures of telling a story, by the
movements, I wanted to imagine it a story of seas and sirens.
Sheila Grant invited us to sit with them
awhile. They were about to have dinner and they could give us some piece of
meat, she told us. But we answered her that we wanted to eat with our mates, but
we would stay with them a quarter of an hour more. Myra and Sue came to the
bonfire and at the moment came the Spence and a third man named Elliot, about
fifty years, grey-haired and rather laconic. We talked a bit about ships
adrift, since Nathan told us that his brother had devised a story about sailors
of yesteryear. Beggars’ talks, Protch, tend to move away from misery. It is
inevitable to refer our day to day life, to talk of our toil and labors, but the
beggars of this city have roads to escape: those of the Torn Hand run away by
the Milky Way; those of the Blood, by mythology if it is Joey Spence who
brightens up the talks. Sheila, Myra and Nathan followed the thread; Sue
deviated by her monarchies and Elliot paid his best attention but seldom talked.
The meat was ready and just then, when they
were about to have dinner, Luke reminded them that we were going to do it now
with our mates, and we said goodbye. It was a short walk until finally
we found Mill Bridge and we were almost home. We left the river and returned down
Alder Street and Millers' Lane. My mate in that short way told me about the
beggars of the Blood. Nothing he knew of Elliot and very little of Sue. Once he
spoke with her awhile, the beggar told him that she used not to remain a long
time in the same city, for she migrated from time to time. But of Luke's constant
puffs I deduced that it was very difficult to say something is true regarding her. Pretty well he spoke to me of Sheila, Myra and the
Spence, but the Blood beggars, he said to me, are not a permanent group as
the Outcasts. Elliot and Myra, for example, can both sleep there and in Umbra
Terrae, and if you go next week, they may be more than 6 or fewer
people than those you have seen today. Just Sheila, Nathan and Joey appear to
be permanent.
We stopped awhile at the only nearby shop
open on Saturday at that hour, and although I don’t remember what we bought, I know
that day we also returned well provisioned and none of our mates were
hungry.
At dinner, I was telling my impressions of
that Saturday, of the places and people I had met. Really beautiful were Knights Bridge,
the Umbra Terrae Boulevard and Arcade Bridge.
And I told the great emotion to see Lucy, Luke and Paul with their names united
on a tree in Knights Hill. I said nothing of Margaret Prancitt's photograph and
her resemblance to the Virgin, because I didn't know if for Luke this was a
secret. I also have the vague memory that this was the last time that year
that I watched the reddish light of Antares. Checking that light I used to go
to bed once the bonfire was put out, but with its stellar brightness as a last
flash in my mind.
Of Sunday 14 I remember well the night but
my impressions of the morning and the afternoon are scarce. I know that it
was a day when Luke and I did not walk so much and we came back with some
food, even though we would have a free dinner with our neighbors. We did not even light
a bonfire. We seven were a while chatting together and at about nine Mistress
Oakes told us that it was the right time to leave. We went down the path that I've
named as thumb, among the tents of my first two mates and walked a few
hundred metres. The Outcasts camped a little beyond the menhir, which you
could see very close, threatening in the south, between their outskirt and ours.
They saw the seven of us arrive, in fact
eight, actually, because little Paul came in Luke’s arms, and then a man stood
up to greet us. I knew then that day he was 52 years old and he had been on the
street since he was 25. High, with scarce hair that he was still losing every
day and snowed his shoulders, frayed and grimy clothes however covering him
enough, slow steps but always knowing where to guide them, Vincent
McFarlane is surrounded by an unmistakable tone of calm, once he learned to
tame his rage when he was so young in the street due to a heartbreak, and to
survive he began to find wisdom in calm, and not resignation. Calmly, with the inexhaustible calm that goes
with him, Vince is a maverick who protests and rebels, calmly, before any
injustice towards him or his own people, and his own people, Protch, are also
the Torn Hand beggars, all the ragged people of the city, any outcast or anyone
that pleads understanding, which he delivers full with the infinite light of
his peace.
My dear Mistress Oakes was the first to give
him a warm hug, a couple of kisses and affectionate words of congratulation. All the
others congratulated him too while he invited us to sit mixing with them, with
words of wisdom to each of us, said in chronological order. When he came to me,
he greeted me:
− "Welcome, Nike
Siddeley. Something your mates have told us of your name and your
circumstances. While you're here you'll be pleasantly received between us. Stop on this place whenever you want."
I don't remember whether I was able to answer
him, but he introduced me to his mates, perhaps ignorant that I already
knew Vera Lloyd, Enoch Reed and Katie Chamberlain. But with them there were two
other women, close to 30. One of them is called Evelyn Mills. She shook hands
with me while I noticed her cascade of blond hair as a nocturnal sun among the
stars. Her prominent breasts, her curved lines, her wonderful waist, made me
wonder what I would have felt in a previous time, desirous of femininity. It
seemed to me that the same thing must be thinking another young woman, Loraine
Sparrow, a brunette with short hair, a male but sweet body, who didn’t take her
eyes off her. Maybe Evelyn had noticed it quite a while, but she did not seem
to care. Both of them went together to the street and the former held her mate
tenderly. Evelyn was still attracted by
men and that night I knew she was in love with Joey Spence.
A couple of weeks they had been saving for
that feast. They had ordered food to a restaurant I can't remember but I know
we ate chicken, lasagna, and a chocolate cake that had been crowned by a
beautiful 52 of cream. When we were all seated, I placed myself between Vera
Lloyd and Bruce and the former spoke to me.
− "It is a long
time since I haven’t seen you, Nike."
− "I sometimes go
and sometimes come, Vera −I explained to her not knowing how to tell her about
my doubts or fears−, but I think this time I'll stay –and I asked her at last what
I had been two months wondering−. My mates have told me that they and
you often communicate with whistles. I would like to know them in case I need
them."
First it was a clamor of voices which volunteered
to teach me. But finally they agreed that Vera, since she was by my side,
explained it to me. It is very simple, Protch, and one day if you want I will start
to whistle and illustrate you better. They are not words, but about 20
different messages where what matters is if the whistle is persistent or
interrupted, more or less acute, of a friendly tone or one of urgency. The
longer be the whistle the more worrying: something that is not quite normal is
happening; and when we hear it we all go. Shorter ones are used for us to talk
amicably. Vera was a good teacher and it didn’t take me long to learn the five
or six most important messages. In a few days I was using them. But don't fret:
only the gentlest and kindest.
All the time Vera used to teach me, Katie
was making dinner, while I was watching my fellow mates, Luke with Paul in his
arms and Lucy leaning tenderly on his shoulders: how beautiful it was to see
them always thus, needing and loving each other; John was crestfallen. He
hardly spoke all night. Surely he remembered other dinners with the Outcasts,
always beside Miguel, and this must be the first without him; Olivia was very
quiet, I still do not know why and on the other hand, Bruce was all night
laughing and talkative. Mistress Oakes need not talk to also be an implied
power for the Outcasts and with looks she was all night chatting with Vince,
who sometimes answered her telepathically, sometimes spoke of her with everyone
calling her "your mistress". However it was created the bond between both, I knew it was perfectly knotted and it would be unbreakable. I was
also noticing how tmy neighbors' hearts worked. Besides being
increasingly clear that Loraine was in love with Evelyn, I saw the strange quartet
of old loves and new loves that Katie, Vince, Vera and Enoch had. First I
imagined and I later confirmed that Vince and Vera had been together for more
than ten years, but love became routine and finally they stopped their relationship considering
the only important thing: how much they loved each other. He often looked at
her knowing that she felt unhappy about Lucy and Luke’s son, because she always
remembered the boy she lost. I knew that as long as they lived Vera and Vince
would be great friends and since they loved each other so much, Vince would
never object to the love that had arisen between his old girl and his friend
Enoch, a man who that night seemed a bit absent-minded. And she was also glad that
Katie had relieved her in his beloved Vince'e heart. Strange agreement, if
agreement it had been, but the fact is that the Outcasts seemed all happy with
things as they were.
We started dinner. All but Paul, who had
been breastfed for a while before coming. Loraine looked at him tenderly, and
Luke, who had seen her, handed him a second to her arms. As already expected,
Paul began to cry when he changed arms.
− "Your little
king does not love me −I shuddered when I saw that also the Outcasts called him
thus−. I don’t think I would ever have a son, but..."
− "Are you sad about
it?” −delicately asked Lucy.
− "If I am
sincere, I am not. I do not see myself responsible enough to look after them
and I do not desire any children. I prefer to rock my friends' children. But you can see that rocking yours is impossible. He always cries in
my arms."
− "In all arms he
cries long before accepting them –said Mistress Oakes−. But there is an infallible
remedy. Hand him to Nike, Loraine. I do not think that with him he has ever
cried."
The one who cried then, I fear, was me,
noticing again how fondly my dear mistress always names me. When Paul
fell asleep in my arms, we were already eating the cake. Then an argument
originated. We talked about our dire living conditions.
− "When hunger
lasts more than one day −said Katie−, we lose our principles. We may steal,
sell our bodies or become, if necessary, our friends’ parasites."
− "If hunger is
constant, we have the RASH or a friend or relative's house −John answered
calmly-. Your argumentation, Katie, could be ok, but hunger is never so
extreme, and before doing all you have said we search for food in the garbage or eat
it raw if a fire cannot be lit."
− "That is
another important thing −Olivia looked at her and said nothing. She did not
bother to refute her explanations. I think that both women had a long enmity
and when one spoke, the other was silent. But Katie went on−. You can eat raw
meal if a fire cannot be lit. But this is more necessary in days of intense
cold. Even a homeless −she at least did not use the word beggar− would do
anything not to freeze."
− "We always find a place to sleep those days, dear Katie −said Bruce−: either in the RASH or in a friend's
house, sheltered somewhere."
− "If heavy rain
prevents to light a fire, we -said the Outcast woman− go under Mill Bridge."
− "But the one we
have in our outskirt is Menhir Bridge, which is broken –I said shyly−. It would
not protect us from rain."
− "You must not have
had yet one day of rain with intense cold, Nike. Or you would go under Meander
Bridge, or to the cemetery if necessary."
− "The cemetery has enough with the will-o'-the-wisps -said Luke−, but there is no cold
that does not cure the warm interior of the "house.""
− "If indeed your
survival were at stake, Luke, you would do the bonfire there inside or you
would burn Henry Shaw’s house if there is no other choice."
− "We will not
reach any agreement −Vince stopped the discussion, conciliatory−. Kate, my love, everything you've said is all
very well, but we cannot know if you're right as far as those dire conditions do
not occur. Meanwhile, what our neighbours have said is good for friendlier
times."
- "Hopefully we
will never get there." - I thought calmly. Katie Chamberlain is always very
right and perhaps does not exaggerate too much. But she makes you look at what you
had not wanted to look.
Vera and Enoch had got up a while ago and
walked closer to the shore. It was then when they looked in our direction and
Luke rose.
− "Come a minute,
My Mate”. –he told me. I put Paul in her mother’s arms and I followed him.
They were waiting for us next to an old mill
that seemed a cathedral in miniature, quite close to the menhir, which was not
a threat in such good company. They made us gestures to enter beside them.
There was room for us four, comfortably seated.
− "Enoch was showing
me his city album. This mill seems to retain its light even in the darkest
hours."
− "Show it to
Nike, Enoch” –Luke suggested. Not knowing what to think I agreed, when I saw
the Outcast, sitting next to me, move the non-existent pages of an album.
How to tell you, Protch, that first
experience with Enoch Reed's "photographs". I would tell you
that he is an excellent photographer if I feared not for your opinion on my sanity.
But I will tell you that other artists would like to use words or descriptions
as he does. And although there are actually no images on the pictures, with his
words one not only is able to see them, but he sees small details that you had
overlooked. He showed us an album of more than 300 photographs of the city, since he
used to photograph everything, some places, like Knights Bridge, from different
angles, and so, if a lady was seen from her back crossing it towards Arcade,
she was seen later in a photograph where you could see her face, because he
remembered all the faces and described them accurately. He should have been a painter
or a poet. I learned concepts as base or archivolts, which he explained to me patiently.
Even places in the city that I did not know well, I wanted to see them again to
check the particularities that had escaped me. And so, when I returned to work
the next day, I walked again down Dingate Street to see again the Gate of Din,
and there indeed were all the archivolts he had described. Since that day,
before seeing any part of the city which I do not know, I would rather have Enoch
first describing me his photos. It took me an hour and a half to see them all,
but our mates, who were waiting for us, when we returned to the fire, told us
it was time to go. We congratulated Vince again, gave a kiss to everyone else
and returned. It was a delightful evening. Little indeed had been necessary for
me to love my neighbors.
Of the morning and the afternoon of October
15 I have only vague memories. Rain was foretold for the next three days and in
fact when I arrived at the Thuban it was drizzling. Avalon Road must be the
only street where it is not a pleasure to smell the wet ground because the
water on it makes it smell of gasoline, asphalt, cement, greasy opulence. I
hardly remember my conversation with Richard, in which I was referring to him
patiently my experiences of the weekend, all the outskirts I knew, the names painted
on an elm tree of Knights Hill, James’ home and the entire way back. And of Sunday
the expected knowledge of my neighbors, the Outcasts. I did not know if they
had a chronological order, to which they gave any importance. Only vaguely I
sensed that Vince was the veteran and Loraine the last one to arrive. Richard
heard me interested by everything I told him and by everybody, but I feared to
be filling his head with thousands of unknown names. His infinite patience, his
undeniable affection, his warm smile, this reminded me that I still had a debt
to pay, and not saying anything to him, I thought that this would be a good
night to go with an umbrella to his house.
In the afternoon Luke and I went back to St
Stephen, to the 5 o’clock mass. And soon there came also Mistress Oakes and
Olivia. It was the first time that I was with them on the street. But about 7
we all left. It was now heavy rain; now it was no longer the drizzle of all day.
It was not the luckiest day but we got enough for dinner. But we ate little. We
had to leave something for the next two days.
And after dinner, I told them that I would
go for a walk - only my mate knew about my real intentions−, I walked to St
Alban's Road looking for number 79. Up to there I know of the second city of
Hazington, the immense Riverside. This is the longest avenue in the city and I
think the numbers now exceed 400, but they could be more, as constant new residential
areas grow in the south. On the other hand, in number 79 you can no longer see
the cemetery. Sarah told me that the avenue used to have the grim company of
constant hearses and processions of bereaved people, but from their balcony St.
Alban’s cemetery was not visible.
A woman answered the intercom, with a deep masculine
voice. I rightly assumed that it would be Sarah Protch. Her voice showed that she
had long been haunted by drugs, but her face, her words, her opinions, were all
tenderness. When I answered that it was Nike, I no longer had any doubts that she
knew who I was perfectly by her husband, and even heard her shout "it's
Nike, Richard" joyfully alerting him. I walked calmly up the two floors
rather than taking the elevator, and soon I was on the left door of the second
floor, your cousin’s house, Protch. And indeed his hairless face greeted me
with a wide smile.
− "Welcome to my
humble home. At last, Nike. I was looking forward to receiving you here. Now I
hope it's not the only time. And in fact we were about to have dinner. I hope
that now you sit at the table with us and also hope you like hake."
− "I am not very
sure that I want to accept, Richard."
− "It must not
always be give and take, Nike. Look, it is true that I did not have dinner with
you when I went to see you to your outskirt. But finally, although it is hard for me
to tell you, I will tell you anyway: I would prefer that the food you earn on the
street be only for your mates. Now lecture me, if you wish."
− "It is not
necessary, my friend. I will eat something with you. I hope it's not much
trouble."
− "Not at all −answered
Sarah−. Come and dine here whenever you want. And please, sit down and make
yourself comfortable. You are in your house."
-How to describe them to you, Protch, they being
your family? I love them, but I fear you may get offended. The day I decided to
tell you my story I knew that a time would come when I had to talk about them.
−Nike, tell me about them
all without fear. It will be beautiful to see them through your eyes. In
addition with a retrospective look. My wife and I missed Armand and Crystelle's early years and we'd like to hear from them also with my friend's friendly
voice. The girl was then a month...
−She was a month the
next day. But I have interrupted.
-And the small Armand
two years, wasn't he?
−Two years, two months
and eight days. He was born two years before Paul, but a day later, on
August 7. I always remember the date, and the fact that he is Leo, like all of us.
−Go on, Nike.
Armand I did not see then. Crystelle was in
a pushchair, deep asleep at that time. She was there as a small queen, so
beautiful, so secure in her first blankets surrounded by her
parents', her grandfather's and her brother's love. Your uncle Aurélien was sitting on
the couch, waiting for dinner with delight, toothless and wetting his lips with
his tongue, entertained looking at his collection of postcards. He always did
before dinner.
− "Sit beside me,
Nicholas −I was introduced thus to him for not having understood my nickname.
He still calls me that way−. Have you ever been to Finisterre? Have you not
even heard its name? I was there about 10 years ago. I traveled with some
friends the Way of St James, and ended it on Finisterre because I had never
seen the sea. That year in June I saw it for the first time, and I even washed
my feet there. It was for me a need to see it before I died. Later I have gone
several times on foot along Brittany and the French Riviera."
He showed me a lot of postcards. In them I
could see harbours, lighthouses, beaches and promenades, boats of all kinds and
sizes, calm waves, rough waves, buoys, amateur fishermen, professional sailors.
The algae could almost be smelled. But after seeing the previous night some 300
"pictures" without images, I liked these ones a bit more.
Difficulties he had few to speak clearly that night, although I have known him
in days when I cannot understand him. His lucidity was evident in his
liveliness and even his brilliance. We were about to have dinner, but where was
Armand?
They were looking for him for a few minutes
because it seemed that your nephew liked going to the balcony to watch the sky,
especially at night. At that time, but still today, he liked to fantasize about
aliens and was looking among the stars with the hope of a spacecraft which
unexpectedly came down to Earth. But Richard found him soon. He reprimanded him
but Armand did not learn his lesson and on such occasions everybody took long
to lose fear.
We then went to dinner. I felt them as
unknown people but with dear faces and I was invading their privacy. But Armand
made it easier for me. He unexpectedly stood up to talk to me.
− "I was wondering
−he looked at me seriously− if you know how they can build their homes in those
balls of fire. Because the stars are fire, aren’t they?"
− "They are fire,
but aliens live on planets. They are great earthen places where they can build
their houses, if they have good materials. I don't think that they are mud,
because you know? In these places there is no water."
− "Listen to
this, Grandpa, in those worlds you could not go to the sea. But it must be very
difficult to clean up the streets then. And where do they make their homes?
There will be only mountains or deserts."
− "Their bodies
will be made in such a way that they do not require water –and always thinking about
beggars−. And maybe they do not live in houses. There are people on Earth who
do not have a home."
He was carefully thinking of this awhile and
he didn’t say anything until the next time I went to visit them. But he asked
me a question. Just in time, because then Crystelle woke up and began to cry. Her
brother, solicitous and tender, took her in his arms and managed to calm her
down.
− "And how do you
know all this?"
− "I have friends
that come from the planet Algibola –I invented, mixing Lucy's star and Luke’s, Algieba
and Denebola−. They tell me many things. Their bodies do not need water and they
live in groups of 20 in caves of the inside of this planet, in the middle of
the constellation of Leo. As you can see this planet is in your sign."
−All of this will be
familiar to you, Protch.
–I have heard stories about
the planet Algibola many times from my nephew Armand. He always tells me that
one friend Nick, who comes from there, has told him.
−Well, Protch, I've
never told him that I come from this planet, but you must have already guessed that
I am Nick.
−I should have guessed.
He even often speaks to me of constellations and their stars, and UFOs and
Martians. But I am afraid that I have not paid him much attention. Who might
have told me that hearing Armand better I could have known of you?
−I have gone
frequently to see your family. When I left you the house, Protch, I got a
promise from Armand, and more recently from Crystelle, that they should tell
their uncle Herbert, if something they told you, that they knew, changing my name,
one Nick. Their parents were both well instructed and never said anything.
And I fear that your uncle never understood the name Nike, and if he ever spoke
to you of the visit of a beggar Nicholas he would not give you any clue.
Forgive me, Protch. Your family has lied to you due to my insecurity. If
someone is to blame it is me. Even one day that I had gone there with Luke, suddenly
your wife and you had gone there too. We were hidden for two hours in a room and finally you left and when you left, we left too.
-So many years
wondering where you might be and once you were in the same house as us. Live to
see. With love I tell you that you are a rascal, Nike.
−Dear Protch, I cannot
now amend my mistakes. In conclusion I will tell you that Armand is now an expert
in stars. Someone who wasn't me told him once of the people living in the
street, and he related it with what I told him that October 15. And he always
says that when he grows up, he will be devoted to build houses both to beggars
and aliens.
That night, unexpectedly warm, it was not
necessary to light any fire. Nike and I spoke somehow wrapped in the usual starless
shroud.
− "Then when he
was so small, Armand already thought of building houses", I said,
"especially for the most disadvantaged."
− "Maybe it was
me who put that idea in his head, when he was only two tender years old."
− "But now he no
longer speaks of extraterrestrials."
− "I guess that it
must have been for him a real disappointment to discover that there is no
planet Algibola. Now he looks at the space in search for more tangible things.
But he is still interested in cosmos."
− "I find it so
tender to see him at his two years..."
− "Then he was a
very intelligent boy. And that intelligence was good for him later to become a
supportive man."
Supper tasty and varied, as well as hake there
was a salad, was followed by dessert: chocolate custard and coffee, since Richard was
not going to accept I left his home not having had one. As I did not know what to
tell, I started listening to Sarah, who was very talkative. She showed she knew
everything about my past months. You can see that Richard had been updating her
about the fate of that Mr. Siddeley for whom his cousin Herbert used to work.
But if she knew about my love for Luke, she didn't mention. Much about her own
story she could not tell me because both had the agreement not to mention jail
or swindle before Aurélien. Later I'd go and see them on a regular basis, but
that night Sarah told me that she had found a job as a cook in the Frederick
Rage Association to help those who fall into drugs. I saw her, Protch, as a strong woman, who
having a second chance, was not willing to lose it as long as she could
continue next to Richard. And together both of them became invulnerable and
affectionate. They were one for the other. I did not know yet how they had met
in jail or what their common story was. But now I always see them as the
Protch, a perfect union of two.
Crystelle woke again and now it did not seem
easy that she fell asleep again. After 10 fruitless minutes, Richard suggested that
we tried handing her to my arms and see if she calmed. And it happened again,
Protch. I do not know what power I had then to calm children, but Crystelle
also fell asleep and after a few minutes we put her again in her pram. And then
I left, telling them I wanted to converse awhile at the fire with my
mates and assuring them that it had been a delightful evening. They invited me sincerely
to spend a few hours with them occasionally and both assured me that they would
also often come to the Torn Hand. It was a home of peace and happy people. So I
saw them, Protch. The next morning, I said the same thing to Richard. And your
family has always been in my feelings since then.
On days 16, 17 and 18 October rain was
persistent and we had to tighten our belts. Hard autumn days which were good
for me as training for cold and hunger. I did not want to imagine how winter
would be. Luke and I went to the Basilica with two umbrellas. Then, on the
steps, I was the one who outstretched his hand and he held the largest umbrella
that I had brought from Deanforest, open for both. One gets used to everything.
That is not the worst. Besides the fact that parishioners on rainy days do not
frequent the temple, let’s say that people attending are half, there is no one
walking the streets. That day what we got was scarce and each managed to eat,
but without a fire, alone in our respective tents.
And I spent the hours in the Basilica silent
because my mate was absent. It is very difficult to explain to you this week of
Luke. At times it seemed as if he wasn't there, but there were moments in which his mind returned and every word he addressed me was said with special
tenderness, a tenderness new in him, so much so that when I thought that something I
had said had hurt him, he surprised me with so much love that I was moved. It
was as if he were lost in a world of his own inspiration because at times I heard him
murmur strange things, like something that sounded to me like "because many
are the snakes" and I was unable to see what he was thinking. Although now
you can’t understand me, Protch, Luke’s mind was then lost on August 5.
− "Have you talked of snakes, Luke?" –I asked him.
− "My Mate −he
showed again his best smile and used a tone of sweetness which moved me−, our
third code says something like this: “it is not right to tell what you shouldn’t
say." One day I know that I'm going to tarnish this code and I will explain
to you some things that maybe you should know. Snakes are unimportant. Don't
think now about them."
And with this answer I had to have enough. I
didn't know what to think and I would have given a fortune to know what
thoughts were occupying my mate's mind. Meanwhile you're learning to
appreciate what you have and what I got in conclusion is that his tenderness
was enough for me. We hardly had to count the money, but when Luke told me
something similar to money does not make happiness, an idea came to me again
which startled me for not being able to grab it. I kept it in my mind a few
seconds and it seemed to me that I even could then understand it. It was
worrying because I knew that it had to do with Luke and that catching its
meaning would calm me in something important.
Back in our outskirt, our mates were
then at the doors of their tents, because it had stopped raining for twenty
minutes. But it was a futile hope. It was only an inconsequential talk time,
enough to know that food was scarce, and so I beheld again Theseus, also called
Achilles, which roamed the wet ground as a ghost, until it started raining
again and I lost it.
I hardly have any memories of the next day,
Wednesday 17. It did not stop raining all day. I do not remember now whether Luke and I
were out, but I know that Bruce saved our day, for he had been all day walking Riverside
from end to end and was soaked and really tired. But we ate all from him.
And he even had the chance to explain to me his day inviting me to a coffee in The Last Road.
− "In days like
today, Nike, I would recommend you to get wet and walk everywhere. I know Luke
and you set yourselves a path, often in agreement with Lucy. But if people do not
leave their home, you have to personally go to them."
− "You are wise,
Bruce. And I have actually been several days thinking about the possibility of
walking the streets one afternoon with you. I do not think Luke would mind, but
maybe you prefer going alone."
− "Nike −he said
almost crying−, I've been going alone for years. For me it would be a pleasure
to go with you. My road will be less solitary crossing it one day with a real
friend."
− "But have you never
gone with anyone?"
− "With one
Frank before I met Mistress Oakes, Olivia and her child. But I soon got used to doing long walks and leave them alone. I never went with Miguel. Before John's arrival we were already friends, but my damn jealousy made me never
suggest it to him. And your mate, the next day of his arrival, already went
with Lucy. No, Nike, I was for many years in solitude. But now I have a seventh
mate who asks me to go together."
− "Then Bruce, you
choose the date; I do not think Luke is against my going with you one day."
− "Tomorrow it will
be raining. How about the day after tomorrow, Friday?"
I told him that I would speak with Luke, but
I found it ok. Instinctively, I assumed that my mate would accept. For whatever
reason, it was impossible to go on Fridays to the street with him. If you
remember, Protch, day 5 was when I could not go to the street due to my
blisters, and the next, Friday 12th, I had to stay in the Thuban
with Mr. Dewes.
I remember little more of that rainy day and
I remember nothing of Thursday morning. But I know that afternoon it stopped
raining, Luke and I went to the street and there was where I told him that
I wanted to go the next day with Bruce. And we also unexpectedly met John,
who had a glistening smile and a paper in his hand. We were, it is surprising
how things are suddenly remembered, in a square of the village. We called him to
us and he sat a while with us. What he had on his hand was a letter. He had casually met Anne-Marie when she came out of work and was going to the outskirt
to bring it to him. It was from Miguel. He was telling that his father seemed
to be recovering satisfactorily from his heart attack, but since he was very old, the
doctors had recommended him to stay some more time under observation in hospital.
"And you see, my dear," he said, "I have been here very few
days, but in these circumstances I do not dare to leave Cádiz." Besides
his mother, very old too and quite sick, needed him. The letter also spoke of
his renewed friendship with Brenda Dolores, who for years he had not seen. He
spoke much about her or how he found her, and I perceived jealousy on John later.
He was jealous even of Miguel’s cousin.
John was with us for 15 more minutes. The
unexpected afternoon sun had made us all, though not fully provisioned, have enough to eat that night after the last two days' hunger. We had returned to
the outskirt really early and upon arrival we saw Mistress Oakes and Olivia
−Lucy had remained taking care of Paul− with buckets in their hands. They were
going to clean the "house", the usual weekly routine, and today it was
possible after two days of heavy rain. This week the weather was devilishly
strange because I remember that Saturday was very hot, as if back to summer.
Of course not only the women cleaned the
house. We were three and I also offered. Only Bruce had not returned yet. And
there went also Enoch Reed, along with Vera and Loraine. All the Torn Hands
went up and started to work thoroughly. This time they allowed me to do
something else apart from bringing buckets of water. In some cases I knew how
to do it due to having observed my maids and knowing which tasks I had to do; in other
cases they were patiently teaching me. But that night of October 18 I left the
“house” with the domestic lesson almost learned.
And finally we had a bonfire that night
again. The conversation was difficult because Paul would not sleep. It is true
that he was in his mother’s arms, in his father’s and in mine and in none of
them cried, but he was uneasy and seemed as if about to talk, even without knowing.
Oh, little king, what a miracle or rectification would make you speak the
following night, three letters that changed my fate. But only John spoke,
making us partakers of his good fortune. Mistress Oakes suggested that someone might
tell a story, but no one seemed inspired that night. Perhaps it was that not all of us were there yet. In addition to Miguel's prolonged absence, Bruce still had not
come. But then we saw him climbing the slope and he approached the fire. He
looked like Santa Claus, with a full bag of goodies. It did not surprise us. We
thought he was shy but he had made friends with half the city. And there was a
news kiosk operator in the vicinity of the Philip Rage who, whether because of appreciation or because she moved her business, had given him so many things
that we would spend several days to consume them. There were bags of popcorn,
roasted corn, some candy to forget hunger for a while, sweets and chocolates. After
distributing us that treasure, he sat as if apologizing.
− "We were
suggesting that someone might tell a story, Bruce −said Mistress Oakes−. Will
you?"
− "You know that
I am unable to tell a story properly. They are too short, I lose the thread, I sometimes
confuse the characters, all that."
− "Come on, Bruce
─ encouraged him Olivia−, you’ve already told several stories and many of them
were not too bad."
Olivia’s stimulation was all he needed. He slightly
changed his position, sitting more comfortably, and somewhat hesitant he began
a short story that I have not been able to forget, so moved I was.
− "Once upon a
time –he began correctly− there was a very common grey cat and quite from the street
called Terry −grey and called Terry. It is thus that Terence returned to life−.
He was quite in love with a white cat named Midge, with a lineage and pedigree,
perhaps a Siamese cat. She, however, did not seem to notice. But her lover
wouldn't leave her and followed her everywhere. One day, naughty, she climbed
to the top of a tree and then she meowed asking for help because she was unable
to get down. Terry took courage and dared to try and rescue her, going in
pursuit of her beloved one. But just in the first branch, he started because it
suddenly seemed that the old yew spoke to him. "You are on a sacred tree, you
insolent." and suddenly he was back on the floor. Whenever he tried climbing
again, he got the same answer. The yew explained that the female cat was also
sacred, and after allowing her to relax for a while at the top, the tree itself would
place her gently on the ground. So he was learning that Midge was not for him
and although he could never forget her, he had to continue his life as best he
could. Some time later he came close to drowning one afternoon on the shore of
a lake, because he could not swim. But there was to save him a cat called Nile
that had lived better days and that now dwelt on the feline outskirts. After
rescuing him, they stayed a while meowing together until Nile decided to teach
him ─in this point my eyes became one with the fictional lake. I realized that
I was cat Nile. Bruce looked at me seeing me cry and I hope my glance was
saying "thanks, my friend" −. Nile and Terry became accustomed to
swim together in that lake. And this is how Terry met a brown cat which was
swimming there, called Ophelia. And by dint of swimming together several days
they became great friends and who knows whether finally they would not gambol together and beget the same litter. This way, Terry never entered
Olympus, but he found down here the only really sacred things: friendship and
love."
It wasn’t hard for me to understand that
Bruce had extracted the facts of his story from his dear ones and all his past
or present experiences. He was Terry, and Midge was his beloved Miranda. Ophelia
remembered Olivia. Surely he would have given that name to the brown cat had
his beloved mate not been there that night. And cat Nile was one Nike, his mate. I felt truly honored that, little as I had been with them, Bruce had
included me in his story.
John took me out of my self-absorption,
adding pearls of wisdom of his own lore. I was actually always surprised by his
vast knowledge of everything.
− "In Egypt there
were sacred cats, but of this I don't know much. Anyway, we revere our cats, but
do not consider them sacred. And it seems to me, Bruce, that you have also
based on what I told you the other day about the native American sacred yew,
whose wood was turned into a bow which shot the arrow on whose backs went up to
the skies The Greater Bear, The Lesser Bear and the other animals of the
constellations."
− "Here we often
spend some time, Nike –Mistress Oakes told me− considering trees as sacred. It
is true that I have been told that the Celts had 21 sacred trees, including the
ash tree. For us they are sacred because they guard the water we drink, and they give us life. And they have also told me that the alders were associated with Cronus. If
you've not heard of Him, Nike, I will tell you that Cronus is a Titan, none
other than Zeus’ father. Cronus for the Romans was Saturn. And the alders in
the south guard the waters of the river, some ancient cave and the dead of St.
Alban. We give them our own meaning: we have to care for and always protect our trees,
especially our gods, who watch over us."
− "And what about
waters –I asked, because I had always revered them−, are they not also sacred?"
−“Surely, Nike. But I
do not know. Perhaps Lake Titicaca... But it is true that we are surrounded by
water: the Kilmourne, the lake, Rivers' Meet. But in your honor we can make them sacred, what do you think?"
− "I think so,
John. But do we have to follow some special ritual?"
− "To swim in
them once. Our first two mates, who still cannot swim, could fulfill this
precept if at least their feet got wet. But they could go further if you teach
them, Nike."
− "It would be a
real pleasure for me –I said−, if they want."
− "I am too old
now to learn, mate −said Mistress Oakes−. I prefer to fulfill the precept by
wetting my feet. But perhaps my girl..."
− "I will do whatever
you do, Madeleine." said Olivia.
The night was an ideal observatory for
watching the stars, no fog and a waning or new moon, I'm not sure which. From
our place I hardly saw the weak autumn stars, which can be easily seen only where
there is little light. If we had not slept, soon we would be dazzled by Orion,
which comes with Taurus and Gemini, the Charioteer and the two dogs, the greater dog
and the lesser dog, with the star Procyon, and the star of Christmas, Sirius,
respectively. But at that time John taught us to recognize Aquarius and Pisces,
right of the Pegasus, the former, and under it, the latter. But while we were trying
to recognize them, Lucy said something about the vertigo that sometimes caused
her to watch the stars, both shocking and pleasant.
− "Imagine, Lucy,
that the Earth is actually a boat in the ocean cosmos. Look at Millers' Lane, at
that streetlamp at the end of the street. If you spend hours looking at the
sky, the stars that you now see on Alder Street, half an hour later will be on
that streetlamp and then they will move westward, road to Rivers' Meet. Take
the streetlamp as a reference point and you will feel the deception to believe
that those stars are moving towards us when in reality it is us that move around
another star, ours, and we have them around in our navigation around the sun. The
first time that I understood all of this and I started to look up, trembling, I
could swear I felt a mild sense of dizziness because for the first time I experienced
what so many times I had been explained and never assimilated: that the Earth
is moving."
I think I can say that all of us felt the
vertigo that night and wrapped in it, little by little, we went to sleep,
About October 19, Friday and October 20,
Saturday, I have so many things to say to you Protch, that it will probably
take me a couple of days to tell you, because in those two days my life was to
change forever, and so I am now the happy beggar you see. The Thuban morning
began with a shock. Soon we saw that Norman Wrathfall had not come and it was
rather odd in him, who used to always be the first to come. And as hours were passing
and we were still without news of him, Samuel ended up locating his daughter
Claire’s phone number and she informed him that her father had just suffered an
angina pectoris and was in hospital. A few days later he was recovered but the
octogenarian Norman, the first President of the Thuban Star, would no longer
work with us.
For some reason that he did not want to
explain to me, Bruce, who walked along all the streets of the city, always
avoided Avalon Road. So I had appointed to meet him in St Paul's square at half
past two. There we met. And after giving him a big hug, I said:
− "Lead me,
Bruce. I'll go wherever you want to go."
He replied that he didn't want to make me
walk too much and I told him that I wanted to know something of his routes and that
we should walk the one he had scheduled for that afternoon. And unaware of the
direction we started to go west of the ugly neighborhood of Heathwood. I don't
know how he did but Bruce walked quickly though he managed tto make it unnoticed and I was able to go at his pace without fatigue.
Heathwood must have been built with no
heart, pretending to forget the fact that there were going to live some decent human
beings and that maybe they would like a little, only a little, of languid
beauty. Bruce took me that October 19 westwards and norhtwards, to the
neighborhood of Northchapel. He seemed to follow a deliberate itinerary, not stopping
in all houses, but only in some of them clearly selected, saying for example:
− "Here in number
28 lives an old lady and I always get something from her. I don't know the
names of all of them, but I know the name of this lady: she is Lady Carter, a widow."
Thus we were going, only to some houses,
obtaining benefits. In number 28 the lady was called Carter, no doubt. Bruce
greeted her by her name and she thanked to be remembered. Sometimes my new mate
introduced me saying "this is Nicholas, a friend", explaining to me that
Nike they would not understand. I nodded.
− "On this street
we are not going to get anything. It is useless. We had better walk a little
more and take the parallel one in the north: America Street. −he explained. I
was at his side as an apprentice never questioning anything, inside and
outside admiring myself of the merits of my mate. He made people, especially
older ladies, feel they were loved and remembered; He memorized fortunate streets and
fruitless streets, the numbers of the houses where you could be lucky and the
streets or houses where it would be useless to try; the names of the alms
givers and in some cases even their jobs, as of one such Lady Brent who he
asked how she happened to be these days in the hospital and whether she had managed
to move to the morning shift. "I'm not surprised, my friend", I
thought to myself, "that you are well known and respected." "How
much you must have wearied to get to the point you are."
At one point I tried to light a cigarette, the
lighter failed me, and he put his hand into his pocket, giving me one, showing me
five others that he had, saying that he never left home without a lighter. I
smiled. He had a beautiful collection. The one he handed to me was red, without
any drawing, refillable. I still keep it. It has a special value for me. That
night it would illuminate me in an unlikely place.
With constant spitting, even for that Bruce
used to choose the streets where nobody saw him, half an hour later we were at last at Northchapel, this neighborhood that I used to watch from my kitchen
window. But Bruce probably knew nothing. He was even talking to me about some visible things, telling me:
− "That bridge
you can see over there is Hammerstone Bridge. I don't know whether you know it. It goes from
south of Northchapel to north of Newchapel."
I timidly told him that I had seen it once
and did not add anything. At Northchapel all the religions of the
city were mixed, but the same architecture. Houses you would find beautiful according to
the windows but with too much façade and too many walls, dull colors or no color,
withered gardens where some species lived that it would have been more
convenient not to mix. What had always been incomprehensible for me was the
name. If there was ever a chapel which gave name to the neighborhood, I was
never able to find it.
On a street he told me that he was going to
go to numbers 16 and 24, and recommended me to wait and I alone should try
later in number 32. He was rewarded in his two numbers. Now it was my turn to
beg for the first time in a house. Shortly after ringing the bell, there came a
man with his face bathed in cosmetics, effeminate in his face, his voice and his
gestures. Bruce told me later that his name was Mr. Osmond. He gave me a two-dain coin and started giving me conversation telling me that my face was familiar
to him. Surely. We were almost neighbours and maybe we had happened to meet in
a nearby street, at a bus stop, walking on top of the Hammerstone... But I
could not say that, and in my shyness, I did not know what to say. I intuited
that this man who had given me alms today must have found me curt and would not
give me again.
We were truly being lucky and as we were
heading to Newchapel I asked:
− "Bruce, how did
you know that this Mr. Osmond would give me money and why haven't you gone in
my place? And it is not that I am complaining. I'm curious. Sometimes you seem to
be a seer."
− "Maybe a bit of
psychology. To be beggars with luck I would say that you sometimes have to make
a caricature of our faces. You have to know which features make us preferable
to which people. You have been all day watching me go from one elderly lady to
another elderly lady. If you look at my face you will see, apart from the fact that
I'm not very attractive, I have the looks of a redeemable rascal, in addition
to my dirty appearance. Many ladies come to me with the excuse to warn me that I
should have a bath. Being kind to them, flattering them or taking an interest
in their jobs makes them have affection for you and remember you. And one at
the end ends up having affection for them too."
− ' And me –I asked
laughing−, what caricature would you do of my face? "
− 'No offense, huh? Well,
I would say that you are an attractive man, looking somewhat helpless, somewhat
rogue and rascal. It's only a caricature, ok? With a mixture of boyish and
virile. A range of condiments for which I would recommend you to frequent
houses where unmarried men somewhat effeminate live. Men who like men, do you
understand?"
I was sure that Bruce could even give me a
list of the places where they lived. I laughed again. In fact I agreed with his
opinion. Mr. Osmond had seemed to feel somewhat attracted to me. If it had not
been due to my dryness, he could have become a regular alms giver.
Deanforest still was far away. We were,
Protch, to give you an idea, in Hammerhill, the Ferguson’s house. Their son,
Derek, was the one who came out. When he saw me, he told me amazed:
− "Are you
not...? −he stammered− sorry, I must
have confused you."
In most of the houses of Newchapel, where
now we really were, something similar happened to me. Most of them knew perfectly
well who I was, but they told me nothing. Although later the neighbors gathered
and shouted things that I could hear perfectly but I still don’t know whether Bruce
heard them too: "Have you seen that? It is Mr. Siddeley. Of course, I've always
maintained that he was not in his right mind."
In The Camellias, Mrs. McNichols’ home, who
gazed at me but mainly stopped her gaze at Bruce, whom she knew well, I saw that my mate didn't flush when he cut one of the last yellow roses that resisted in the flowerless station. And then we went to Rock Cross, Mrs. Medlock’s home, do you remember
her, Protch? Our next door neighbour. She died a couple of years ago. When he
greeted her affectionately "for my rose", Bruce gave her the rose
stolen to the neighbouring garden. Mrs. Medlock is not stupid, and perfectly
knew where that rose came from. But she loved Bruce. And she liked the
unexpected flattery. This lady knew very well who I was, and I noticed it in her
funny gaze, but without acrimony. She asked me pleasantly:
− "Are you having
fun, Mr. ...?"
I had to answer. And I didn't want to lie. I
knew perfectly where Bruce had brought me and what I had to face.
− "Siddeley, Nike
Siddeley" –I answered with no shame.
− "That’s what I
thought –and watching Bruce’s stunned look−. Perhaps Mr. Siddeley and I have met
somewhere –and she concluded with mockery−. Have fun."
Dear Susan Medlock. What I would have given
to see her again. The next house where Bruce wanted to take me to was precisely
Deanforest. I looked downcast at the garden when Bruce, a great connoisseur of
all houses, told me that it had known better times, but anyway we were in
autumn. Maybe it returns to life in spring!
− "In this house,
Nike –he was telling me−, sometimes they give me money and some other times
they don’t −you weren't still there, Protch−. But lately a pretty maid does no
longer come out. I think her name is Agnes. Let's try anyway."
We were ringing the main doorbell, in the
venerable wooden arcade. I kept the comedy looking for something in my pockets.
At last I found it, when Bruce told me that there was no one inside and we had better go
to the last houses of Newchapel, on the other side of the Hammerstone.
− "I do not know
what utility this key might have that I have just found in my pocket. What would you think, Bruce, if
we tried to put it in the lock?"
He didn't know how to look at me. He seemed
furious with himself.
− "Holy heaven,
Nike. Don't tell me that you live here."
− "I don't live
here, Bruce. My house is on the Outskirt of the Torn Hand. Maybe you know it.
But until a fortnight ago I used to sleep here."
While we went to the Hall of Jupiter, he tried
to apologise.
− 'Forgive me. I had
no idea. It is true that sometimes I have heard Luke say you lived in
Newchapel. Then the houses in which we have just been... they were your neighbors,
I... don't know how to apologise, Nike."
− "Bruce. You've
invited me several times to a coffee. In this house I have no food. I threw it
all away. But I still have some coffee in the kitchen. Please, let’s go there. As
for my neighbours... a week ago, I met them. One Vince McFarlane was 52
years old. Do not ever again apologize, Bruce. These are not my neighbors and the life I want is not here. I live on the street, like all of you. Soon I
shall get rid of this house. But meanwhile I can repay my debt a little with
you and invite you to a cup of coffee. Come on in."
He stopped a few seconds before the statue
of Jupiter as if he would like to ask me something, but he didn't. I guided him
into the kitchen. I told him to sit while I was making coffee and in order to chat a
little I said.
− "I also
remember that you allowed me to live eleven days in your home, and that debt I
still have with you. But I will not pay it for letting you come to a house that
I no longer use. Anyway as long as I keep it, this is your home."
His answer was to point at his heart.
− "Can you see where
I'm pointing at, Nike? This is your home."
I started to cry again. Bruce and I shared
the same homes, the street, our outskirt and our hearts. If only it could
always be like this. When I put the coffee on the table, I spoke too of how his
story and his cat Nile had moved me.
− "I don't know
how to tell a story, Nike, but if they ask me to tell one, you had to be in it,
as long as you are by my side.
As long as you are by my side. Bruce, like
Olivia, believed that my stay with them was provisional. And what could I do to
change his view?
− "You think that
I will leave one day, don’t you?"
− "I don't know,
Nike. Each one's life depends on each one. I only know that I was lucky enough
to see one mate for more than three weeks, both in August and October, a
man of integrity that comes from another world and however has become our own
skin, suffering from each of our indignities. Whether you stay or not, your
name will always be for me that of a friend."
− "How do you get
along with Luke?” −I asked him to change the subject.
− "Before August we
had always got along well, but we rarely talked. He was, say, my unknown
mate. But one day in July –he looked at me− there came to us by chance another
unknown man, the most unlikely man in theory with whom we could make friends. However
he lived among us as a friend and we became friends. And through him, on his
face and his words about anything, also about Luke, I began to rediscover him.
Luke is warm enough and a real friend. But to be able to see it, your presence there
was necessary for me. And how do you see him, Nike? What is the street like for
both?"
− "He is an
excellent mate, and if I am wrong with something, he first does not mind it,
and then he teaches me tenderly. This last week he is strange. I previously thought
that something that I had said or done could have hurt him. But I don't think so now. It is as if he were in a world of his imagination where no one, so
far, can enter. I hope he really has no problems with me. I’m so fond of him, Bruce.
I could not bear to lose any of you, nor could I bear to lose him."
The tone of my voice at that moment must
have been so distressing that Bruce looked at me downcast, but clearly wondering
whether he should tell me something. Only timidly he asked:
− "You like him
very much, don’t you? Maybe too much?" –and he looked at me meaningfully.
− "What is it
that you want to ask me exactly, Bruce?" −The moment approached to say it
again. But Bruce deserved to know it. Would I have, him at least, on my side? I
thought I would. Anyway, so I would have to go, one shock after another,
risking his friendship or making it stronger.
− "Before I ask
you anything –and he pointed at his heart again−, this is your home. On me you
can always count. Anyway I could be completely wrong, so please don’t get offended by
the question –and he asked me hesitantly, as if he were apologising in advance for
asking me−: Besides being so fond of him, you love him, don’t you, Nike?"
There was nothing Bruce couldn’t see. From
that October 19 I think that any situation that affects us, especially our
feelings, he is able to see it. But he lives among other people’s lives as if
he were walking on tiptoe, not meaning to disturb. Only when he is sure, as
with me that day, that one really needs to speak, he dares to go a little
further, always showing you in advance that whatever the answer, he will respect
you.
− "I fell in love
with him when I met him, Bruce, on July 30. It was a surprise to me."−I
could have said much more. But I kept silent. I needed to hear what answer he
would give me.
− "Nike, there is
nothing more valuable than love, wherever it comes from and from anyone to
anyone. Love stops violence, it calms you down or shakes you, but it makes you mature.
You have my deepest respect. If you're in love with Luke, there is nothing more
obviously innocent. But another question, I see you afraid, do you fear
him?"
− "I don't know whether
he knows or not. But if he has not found it out, I’m afraid of his reaction when he
knows. And it is enough for me to be fond of him, Bruce. I will never be a
problem for him. The love he feels for Lucy, and Lucy for him, is for me sacred
enough to have it in an altar."
− "If he knows,
he must also know that you will never be a problem for him, as you have just said;
if he does not know, you would be for him no obstacle, because you will tell
him what you have just told me and he will continue loving his wife and his son
and having another six mates and always you the one he loves most. Now he
really likes you. I saw that with clarity in my talks with him in August and
September, and in those of these past fifteen days. You must never fear the
truth. Luke is a mirror that reflects tenderness, but this mirror light would
no longer radiate the same without you. But you are still worried, let us first
embrace. And if one day you feel desperate, come and talk to me."
I desperately needed that embrace. Dear
Bruce, since far August 31 when I met you, always by my side. We had finished
our coffees. But now he knew the truth, I had more things to say. But he asked
me:
− "Is there anyone
else that knows?"
− "On August 6 I
told John. And I can't be sure, but sometimes our first mate says things
as if she knew."
− "Surely Mistress
Oakes knows. But I think I have stopped you when you wanted to say
something."
− "Olivia and you
think that maybe I will leave again. And however I said previously that I wanted
to soon get rid of this house. And there is some information that you still
don’t have, Bruce. Let me start by telling you that on the very August 5 I made
the decision of staying forever with the seven of you."
The necessary information that has not been
told is the rock a river needs to bend and flow properly thereafter. It was a
pleasure to be able to explain to Bruce why one day I left them and assure him I
never wanted to do it.
− "If it depends
on me, Bruce, I will never leave the seven of you."
− "If I have
understood correctly and it depends on Luke then, I don't think you will ever leave us. Nike, I
see that you'd like to tell me much more. But it is Friday night and we're in
Newchapel. You can tell me more on the road and we can still find some open
shops."
And so we left Deanforest to walk towards our
true home and we stopped in a shop to buy. We had been really fortunate. When
we counted the money, we saw that we had 15 dains
and we had to invest them well. He chose to enter a bar and get some cakes. On
the road, I kept talking to him about Luke and he listened to me with respect
and he even stopped to hug me and remind me: "and you know, here I'll
always be."
The moon was not visible. But the first
stars were alternative lights leaving drops of shine in the dark lap of the
outskirt. Luke had not come yet and it was too soon for the bonfire, so
early we had returned. Today I really would try the long-delayed project: to
find some blankets or clothes in the landfill. I
walked towards it. I don't know what eerie shadows wanted to stop me, hidden but
lurking among the ash trees. I shrugged my shoulders and didn't want to know fear. But I
should have known it then, in the threshold, and not in the lobby, of that
endless night.
No comments:
Post a Comment